Art | Harry Styles

36

Recovery - they say it's a return to a normal state of health, mind or strength. They call it the process of regaining possession or control over something lost or stolen; be that sanity, or peace of mind. Be it confidence, or self-worth. It's development - the ability to accept and conquer, and to move forth.

But how do you accept and conquer violation?

Especially when the violator is 3,000 miles away.

Two days have passed. A drag of forty-eight hours, since Harry told Sophie what happened at the party that night. Since her face had fallen in a brutal realisation, as he'd shakily confessed what exactly he was a victim of.

And then came the self-doubt; the string of unnecessary apologies as he promised Sophie it meant nothing, only for her to shut it down with surprise in her tone

"God, how could I ever be angry at you for this, Harry?" She'd asked him rhetorically, his face nuzzling against the crook of her neck, wetting her skin with tears, "it's not your fault. You need to know that it isn't your fault. Not at all."

And then came the decision.

Where do they go from here?

Harry's knee bounces upwards and downwards, the dull blare of cheap radio the only thing to be heard in the waiting room. The woman at the desk reaches for the phone as it rings, her voice monotonous as he speaks.

"NYPD, how can we be of assistance?"

Harry's jaw clenches, his knee continuing to bounce with anxiety as Sophie gently moves her palm around it, drawing her thumb soothingly over his jean clad leg.

"You're sure you want to do this?" she murmurs, pressing her chin to his shoulder as he's leant forward in his uncomfortable metal chair. She knows it's the right thing to do - she's fully aware that it is, and that telling the police is the next step in moving forward. It's either that, or he's haunted - really and truly haunted by her. And he will be - regardless - but justice soothes the sting, at least a little.

He nods, blowing a breath between his lips, before dragging the lower between his teeth. His lips are growing redder due to how often he's finding them between his teeth, as his eyes land on the girl beside him.

"I love you," he mumbles, tilting his head slightly to the side, "m'glad you're here."

Sophie hadn't suggested alerting the police - at least not at first. She knew the last thing Harry needed was weighted advice, or to be dictated even a little - what he needed was support, and the reassurance that whatever decision he made would be the right one. Because, ultimately - what would make him feel better was all that mattered.

They'd been laying on Harry's bed when he'd decided. His hand in hers, irritated with himself because that's all he could manage. Her thumb caressing his knuckle the same way it did now, his head resting comfortably on her shoulder. Silence between them, though his thoughts were deafening, as he presses a soft kiss to her shoulder every so often, feeling as if he has to apologise despite her constant reminders that he doesn't.

"I don't want her to get away with it," he'd whispered suddenly, his voice breaking through the still quietness of his bedroom. "S-She can't get away with it."

If Sophie had it her way, she'd have gotten on the next flight to Manchester and beat the living shit out of Elle for even thinking she could lay a hand on Harry and get away with it. For thinking she could traumatise the most kind, warm-hearted and genuine person on this planet in such a brutal manner, and then to have the nerve to show up and hug him goodbye.