when love lasts | wroetoshaw

twenty one

the drive back to london was thick with silence. harry sat beside me, his phone in his hand, but he barely looked at it. his gaze flicked between the window and the dashboard, his mouth set in a tight line. i focused on the road, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles were white.

neither of us had said much since the bar in switzerland, where everything had come crashing down. the argument, the tension, the way he'd just sat there while chris ran his mouth—it was all still fresh, and the quiet only made it worse.

when we finally pulled into the underground car park beneath our flat, harry grabbed his bag from the boot and headed inside without waiting for me. i followed, my chest tight, already dreading the weight of the silence that waited for us at home.

the flat didn't feel like home anymore. the familiar space, once warm and filled with laughter, now felt cold and uncomfortable. harry dropped his bag in the living room and disappeared into his office without a word, shutting the door behind him.

i stood there for a moment, staring at the door, a mix of anger and sadness swirling inside me. part of me wanted to storm in and force him to talk, to explain himself, but the other part of me wasn't ready for another confrontation.

instead, i turned my attention to the suitcase still sitting by the couch. i knelt down and started unpacking, folding clothes and stacking them neatly. the repetitive action gave me something to focus on, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the bar.

i could still see the way harry had leaned back, his arm casually draped over that girl's chair. the way he'd laughed at something she'd said, completely oblivious to how it might've looked—or how it made me feel. and then chris, with his smug grin, dismissing me like i was overreacting, like my feelings were just an inconvenience.

what hurt the most, though, was harry's silence. he'd let chris talk to me like that without saying a word, and that silence had spoken louder than anything else.

~

the next few days passed in a blur of awkwardness. harry spent most of his time in his office, and i kept myself busy with errands, cleaning, and anything else that kept me out of the flat. when we did cross paths, our conversations were short and impersonal.

"can you pass me the remote?"

"it's on the table."

"do you need anything from the shop?"

"no, i'm good."

each exchange felt like walking on a tightrope, and the tension between us was suffocating. i knew we couldn't keep going like this, but every time i thought about bringing it up, doubt crept in. what if he brushed me off again? what if he didn't understand?

on the third night, after another day of tiptoeing around each other, i'd had enough. harry was sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone like everything was fine, and the sight of him acting so normal while everything felt so wrong sent a surge of frustration through me.

"we need to talk," i said, crossing my arms.

harry looked up, his brow furrowed. "yeah, we do."

i sat down on the armchair across from him, keeping my distance. "this can't keep going on," i said, my voice tight. "we're walking around like strangers, and it's exhausting."

"i know," he said, setting his phone down. "i hate it too."

i took a deep breath, steadying myself. "i've been thinking about what happened at the bar," i said carefully. "and i need to say something. i overreacted, and i'm sorry for that."