The state I'm in COMPLETED

Dare

When my phone flashed Rose's name, I had been lying on Harry's bed for exactly eight hours and eleven minutes. I had declined lunch and snacks approximately five times, until the Styles family finally realized I wouldn't move a muscle until he came back.

I answered Rose's call just to tell her that something came up and I'd take a taxi home. She didn't question it—probably assuming that Harry and I had spent the day tangled up in each other. The irony.

It was ten at night, and he was still out.

When I finally got up to use the bathroom, I found Mr. Styles watching TV, his expression tightening the moment he saw me. Startled, he nearly knocked over the cup of tea he had balanced on the wooden coffee table. His eyes softened—sad, almost apologetic.

"Val, sweetie... I think you should go home." His voice was careful, like he was afraid his words might break me. "He's obviously not coming. Don't you have school tomorrow? I thought it was exam period now..."

I swallowed past the lump forming in my throat. "It is. But I'm staying until he shows up." My voice was steady, too steady, but polite.

He sighed, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Okay, honey. I'm here if you need anything."

He was waiting for me to crack. I didn't. At least, not yet.

Back in Harry's room, I sat on the bed, my back against the headboard, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around them. I waited.

Scenes of us played in my head. Our mornings tangled in sheets. The way he'd pull me onto his lap, murmuring, Mine. How he'd get jealous over the smallest things, his possessiveness infuriating but secretly thrilling. I missed it all.

This month away had been absolute torture, and I was exhausted in every way imaginable. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.

I had finals in a few hours. I should care.
I didn't.

All I wanted was one look. One look, and I would know.

So, I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The sun set. The sun rose.

I was still waiting.

7:30 AM.

My alarm vibrated angrily on the nightstand. I reached out and silenced it with the flick of a finger.

7:45 AM.

The sound of his motorcycle.

My breath caught.

The engine cut off in the garage.

Seconds later, the front door unlocked.

Muted whispers filtered through the walls. I didn't move. I couldn't.

"She's still here?... No way."

The voice was his. But it wasn't. It was hollow, unfamiliar. And just like that, something inside me snapped.

So he knew I was here.
His dad must have called him.
He knew...
And he still chose not to come home.

Chose.

The weight of that word crushed me.

"She's still here," his dad confirmed, voice low but firm. "You better talk to her, or... or I don't know."

The hesitation in his dad's words sliced deeper than I wanted to admit.

Footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.

Like he was dreading this moment as much as I was.

The door creaked open.

I finally lifted my gaze from the dresser, my throat tight, my fingers digging into my arms.

He stood there in the dim light, messy curls, tired eyes, lips slightly parted like he had something to say but didn't know how to start.

"Val...?"

A whisper.

I held his gaze, mine burning with fury, disappointment, heartbreak.

"Who is she?"

The only question that mattered.