Although I'd only interacted with Rashida a handful of times in the past few weeks, I felt as if I'd known her for a rather extensive amount of time. I was discovering more and more about her at an astronomical rate and I felt my admiration for her multiply ten-fold the more we hung out together.

I knew that she loved sunflowers, and that she only took her teas with cane sugar (because that's how her mother made it at home) and that she felt the need to apologize to furniture whenever she ran into something because that was just the type of person she was. She was humble and everything about her resonated in the way she carried herself. I didn't really know how I wound up in the position I was in right now, but it was divine and I wasn't complaining at the slightest.

I suppose I'd been spending more time with her partly because I wanted to stay out of the house and away from Rachel, whom I hadn't really spoken to since the argument. Maybe I was being petty about it, but I didn't appreciate how secretive she and Nate were being.

He was off once again for a work trip, this time down to California for some lawyers' conference or something. Usually this would signal a sigh of relief from me, but I still had to be around Rachel, who acted exactly the same as before – just as distant about the situation, and just as cryptic.

"I'm sure there's a reason," Rashida reasoned in the logical, rational way she always did. "Rachel isn't a malicious person."

"I never said she was," I huffed, crossing my arms before realizing how childish I looked and uncrossing them. "I just think I deserve to know what she feels the need to hide."

"Why's that?"

I didn't answer, partly because I thought my answer was obvious, but mostly because I knew that even though my response was predictable, it wasn't justified. Of course I didn't deserve to know anything in the grand scheme of things, but I wanted to know badly enough to feel like I did.

It was difficult not to listen to the things Rashida said – she had the type of voice that beckoned you to listen to it, and she presented herself in such a way that made you trust the fact that she was intelligent and knowledgeable about the things she said – she was correct, absolutely correct, and I didn't mind being incorrect all the time if I knew she was the one to guide me from right and wrong – and I never liked being wrong.

It was inevitable that Rachel and I would have a day off coincide at some point, and it happened to be on a Friday evening when Rashida was staying late at school to work on her thesis (and therefore couldn't excuse myself from the house to be around her because I really had nothing better to do). I was wallowing in my own misery, as usual, in the living room, when I heard the lock on the front door click. If only I could've been proactive enough to remember that Rachel did grocery shopping on Fridays, I probably would've lasted another day without the dreaded interaction I knew I was about to endure.

"Hey, Harry!" she called from the hallway. I forced out a muffled greeting and increased the volume of the TV. I heard the clatter of her keys in the little bowl on the table in the foyer, then the settling of the grocery bags on the kitchen counter, the fridge opening, then the clinking of water glasses, and the running of the tap for a few seconds.

In that moment I felt like a spectator in my own life, watching as things progressed without me in the picture. I wasn't really a necessary part of anybody's life, and I feared that even if I removed myself from the lives of those around me, nothing would change at all. Everything would stay exactly the same, people would keep going about their daily routine, and I would disappear into smoke.

Tragic.

She clamored into the living room after putting away what she had purchased and plopped herself on the couch a seat away from me, letting out a deep sigh before turning to me and eying the remote.

"I'm not done watching the news yet," I muttered.

"The Bachelorette is on though!"

I shrugged, stuffing the remote under my leg where she couldn't and wouldn't reach.

"If you're still angry about the argument, you shouldn't be. That was between me and Nate."

"If it was simply between you and Nate, why haven't you spoken to me about it like you always do?" I snapped, keeping my eyes glued to the screen. I realized how ironic I sounded, but chose to be stubborn about everything for the sake of being stubborn.

"Because I don't have to tell you anything. Nobody's obligated to either."

"Right, right, it's all a choice, isn't it?" I huffed, trying to control my temper but failing second by second. "If telling people things is a choice, I guess I'll choose to let you know that you'll be a terrible mother."

She frowned, taking a moment to process what I'd just let slip from my mouth.

"Harry, you don't mean that."

"No, I'm pretty sure I do. You're so sensitive to everything, you're secretive, you've got this whole dreamscape in your head and you wanna fulfill it but that's not happening, sweetheart, not anytime soon. If you think for a second that motherhood is up your alley with that mindset, you should probably reconsider your path, Rach."

Things were silent for a moment. She looked like she was going to say something, but closed her mouth again the moment she noticed me unhinging the brakes of my wheelchair and propelling myself away from her presence. My head was spinning because I was so angry – I knew she was hiding something and I knew she wouldn't give it up – not if she could help it.

Losing my temper wasn't what I usually resorted to, but Rachel was the one person I expected to be honest with me. I never fared well with people who were able to lie through their teeth with no remorse.

"But you used to do that, right? Lie through your teeth? Because you were a con artist?" Rashida asked the next day when I told her about the situation, a smirk plastered on her pretty face.

"I– shut up."

That wasn't the point. The point was that nobody expected me to be honest whereas I expected Rachel to be upfront with me. What was it that she thought I couldn't handle? I was a grown man, and I'd braced myself against worse before.

I burrowed myself in my room around 7 every night for nearly a week since I told Rachel off, heaving myself onto my bed in the same fashion each time. I missed walking, I missed being able to leave home without worrying about how I was going to return. I missed being a con artist sometimes, but more often than not, I missed feeling happy; I was anything but.

I drifted in and out of sleep for a large portion of those nights, both troubled and at ease with the fact that sometimes, life just wasn't worth the hassle. Just when I finally began to doze off for good on the last day of the cluster of sleepless nights, a pair of hands gripped my shoulders and shook me out of rest and back into consciousness.

"Wha–?"

"H-have you ever watched Sex in the City?" whispered Rachel's voice, stammering a bit through sniffles.

"I– what?"

"Sex in the City? With Sarah Jessica Parker?"

"Rach, it's four in the morning–"

"Harry, I'm so sorry–"

"It's fine, just go back to slee–"

"No, I'm sorry," she repeated, harsher this time. She released my arm from her hold to wipe her eyes but immediately grabbed my hands when she was finished. "I'm so sorry."

I groaned as I pulled myself up off the bed and sat up. I took in the sight of her kneeling by my bed, her head hanging as she sobbed. It was instinct for me to try and comfort her, but I paused before doing so. In that time, the words I'd let escape from me echoed in my head, getting louder and louder as the ramifications of what I'd said hit me with full force.

"Oh, God, Rach, I'm sorry," I whispered, tugging on her hands to get her to join me on my bed. She clamored up and rested her head on my chest and cried, and I couldn't – wouldn't, in fact – stop her. I sat in silence as I listened to her ugly sobs penetrate every wall I'd built around myself for the past few weeks and let my pride melt into a pool of guilt. "I didn't mean any of what I said last week, I was just upset and that's not an excuse, but–"

"You– you haven't answered me," she whispered sternly.

"What?"

"Have you ever watched S-Sex in the City?"

"Can't say I have."

"Carrie Bradshaw says that we only obsess over relationships that feel unfinished."

"That's... nice?"

"God, why are you making this so fucking difficult?" she snapped, running her hands through her hair and tugging at it a little. "Make the fucking connection, will you?"

"What?"

"You wanna know what happened in the gap? You wanna know why you keep talking about the past as if it were smoke? You wanna know why you can't get rid of Clarine?"

Everything was a whirlwind and the more Rachel threatened to reveal, the less I wanted to know. It was ironic, yes: a few days ago, all I wanted was to be filled in on everything that had happened; now, all I wanted to do was to go back to being ignorant about everything. I had no past, and that's how I'd rather it stay.

"I'm bound by law to never mention anything to you, ever," she sighed. Her fingers were trembling, and I squeezed them tighter. Every bit of me was nearly paralyzed – no part of me wanted to hear anything she had to say, but, at the same time, every part of me knew that if I wanted to gain some sort of substance back in my life, I had to listen to what she had to say.

"Rachel, I can't."

"What do you mean you can't? I've been sleepless for weeks, fought God knows how many times with Nate, and went through meltdowns because of my inability to tell you and now – now that you tell me I can't be a good mom and that I live in some sort of dreamscape – now you don't want to hear it?"

"I'm sorry, I just can't. I thought I wanted to know but I don't."

She sat up and stared at me through the dim moonlight filtering in through the blinds, breathing in deeper and deeper with each breath to try and calm herself down. Before long, she started rubbing her belly again as she got up and left the room without another word. A few minutes later, she came back with a piece of paper, folded in half, in her hands. She set it down on my desk.

"Whenever you're ready, you can open that."

She left again, for certain this time.

I didn't sleep the remainder of the night. The slip of paper mocked me from its place across the room, beckoning me to unfold it and discover its contents. I stared at it, as if staring at it would somehow expel it further away from me than it was currently situated, but telekinesis was of no help to me.

I think I was scared because I had grown comfortable with the hunch I had – and the hunch alone – about what had happened to me; we were familiar, and I was fond of familiarity. Now that I had the chance to confirm everything I assumed to be true, I didn't want to take it because I didn't know which was more frightening: the possibility of being wrong, or the certainty of being right.

"Maybe you should open it. I mean, you've been talking about this for so long and... it's kinda part of your identity–" Rashida reasoned when we went for coffee a few days later. I clamped my eyes shut and rubbed my temples.

"I'm just scared."

"Of?"

"Of realizing my life was better then than it is now."

"What makes you think that's the case?"

"I mean... I remember being happy, and now I don't feel it anymore. I mean, I'm happy when I spend time with you and when I do things I like, but I remember feeling all around content, you know? Endlessly content. Not sporadic happiness. I miss that."

Her eyes softened in reaction to my words, which annoyed me.

"I think you should read it. Logically, you don't lose anything: if you're better off now, that's great, nothing lost. If you find that you were happier then, you can either go about trying to restore how you felt, or you can learn to grow from that. You can't change what's happened, Styles. You only have things to gain from here on out."

Why the hell did she have to be so patient and understanding? Christ, she was wonderful.

She dropped me off at home, and I wheeled into my room, inevitably facing the wrath of the piece of paper, still sitting in its place on my desk, now collecting a thin layer of dust. Like a bandaid, I swiped it up as quickly as I could and unfolded it, letting the contents of the page pour into my brain as I scanned the page.

Harry,

I'm sorry I've been keeping this from you for so long.

I love you a lot; the last thing I'd want to do is hurt you.

I don't know how to tell you anything straight to your face. I feared this would happen the moment I was assigned as your nurse about a year ago.

Nevertheless, you have questions, and I want to be able to alleviate some of them with answers of my own, at least from what I know and have gathered in the last 12 months of knowing you.

Rachel

She included a link at the bottom of her message – it belonged to a blog site.

I didn't really know why I hadn't searched myself up on the internet before this, but I'm guessing it was a subconscious decision. I hated thinking about myself as some news story because nobody really cares about the news unless they need small talk conversation starters. And, more predominantly, I was afraid of finding out things I didn't want to know.

With noticeable hesitance, I motioned over to my laptop lying under a pile of my clothes on my chair. I didn't really use my laptop except to do research for my own sake, but now it was the case that I was putting myself under the microscope.

My fingers clattered against the keyboard. I paused before pressing the enter button, feeling my heart jolt in certain fear of what I would discover.

When the page loaded, all of my biggest fears were compiled into posts in chronological order, all written by Rachel. I skimmed them.

THE Harry Styles ... con man captured ... cop accomplice Clarine Sperling?

The Sperlings visited ... locked himself in his room ... always writing.

I'm going to help him ... he deserves solace.

He remembers ... what do I do now?

At some point between reading the posts and realizing that I had eventually hunched over in my chair and bawled for no less than four hours, Rachel came in and sat on the floor beside me, squeezing my hand and staring at the floor or over at the far wall as she listened to me cry.

"Why didn't you tell me?" spilled from my mouth again and again like a prayer.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," were her only words of comfort.

"She was real."

"I know."

"Why didn't you tell me?

"I... I don't know."

She was silent for the most part, only responding when I let some vocalization past my lips. We sat around for hours trying to find some peace in the chaos until I found some courage within me to sit up a little straighter and set my shoulders back.

"I need to go," I started, "I'm sorry, I need to go and you need to leave my room."

"What? Where to?"

"I just need to go."

"You can't just get up and leave, Harry."

I shrugged and waited for her get out.

It was a blur after that; mostly, what I remember is her yelling at me through my room door after I had locked it and pleading for me to stay. I couldn't, however. Not when traces of her were still out there just beyond my comfortable reach.

I packed my things, grabbed my passport, and waited in my chair by the door until I was certain that Rachel had left. With urgency, I wheeled myself out of the house at 3 in the morning (about two hours after she had gone to sleep), called a cab, and left for the train station.

I found myself anxiously waiting with a ticket to Portland in hand, staring at the second hands of the large clock overhead as they ticked closer and closer to the fourth hour of the day. I didn't know what the fuck I was doing, I had no idea where I was going or where I would stay. Part of me was starting to regret this decision, but another part of me was tired of lying to myself.

When the second hands finally reached the high point of the clock and the chimes of the bells were going off, I felt the hum of the deep ringing reverberate in my chest – a deafening and painful reminder that I was still alive.

At the end of the fourth chime, Rachel peered up from her seat a couple rows ahead of me and cocked her head to the side, a small smile on her face. I frowned and opened my mouth, ready to protest her being here, but without a word she raised her arm, ticket in hand, and tapped her wrist in indication of time – fifteen minutes to boarding.

Rachel was the most despicable human being on the planet. I resented her slyness and inability to be upfront about things that concerned me. But I also loved that she cared enough about me to do so.

We boarded the train together, and she sat beside me, holding my hand and resting her head on my shoulder as the train made its way south.

***

you know when life gets super hectic and you're like "OH GOD I SAID I WOULD UPDATE IN 2 WEEKS" but that 2 weeks turned into 2 months? lol ye that happened

thanks for being so patient. i have lots of love for you. i probably won't be able to update as often as I'd like to because uni is among me once again BUT ALAS this story is still on the back burner for a reason.

also dedicated to the lovely Anne Walker (aka WalkStar) because she's wonderful and a huge inspiration

P.S. IF U LIKE SAD TUNES, JEFF PIANKI IS JUST A CRY MACHINE WAITING TO HAPPEN