limerence (harry styles)

The world beyond your window bleeds together, day into night, an indifferent smear of time passing. You've lain here long enough to memorise the cracks in the ceiling, each one a fault line splitting open under the weight of the unknown. Nothing feels real, except the small white stick on the bathroom counter, an exclamation point at the end of every anxious thought. You are possessed by it, and when the hot nausea washes over you, you don't know if it's from the pregnancy or the fear.

You're back in last week, still caught in its jagged net. The beginning: nausea, vomiting, migraines. In bed for hours, telling yourself it was the flu. Then, the slow recognition. The weeks, the days since the last time you bled. You had said nothing, not wanting to curse it. You've never missed a period before. Clockwork, you told yourself. The headaches will pass. The sickness will pass. And when it didn't, when your body proved its betrayal, you bought the test, all shaky hands and chewed up lips. Pregnant. There in pink, unignorable. Your whole self stills, still trying to fit the word into your understanding. Pregnant. Then you're in motion, unstoppable, like the thudding of your heart.

You cancel on clients and call in sick, words tumbling from your mouth like an incantation to keep you from exploding. It's not the nausea that keeps you in bed. It's anxiety, spreading like a cancer. It's fear, wrapping you in its constricting hold. A voice at the back of your head tells you to tell him, tells you to say it and make it real. But you can't. You're too good at keeping things locked up. You're a steel trap with the key long gone, and so the test, the truth, stays on your nightstand while you, paralysed by what it might mean, stay in bed.

You think of calling him, hearing his voice and pretending. Saying everything's fine, you just need some rest. Maybe you'd get away with it. Maybe he wouldn't notice. But he knows you too well, and that scares you more than anything. He doesn't wait for you to reach out. The call comes, the texts. Just checking in. Missed you today. You're really worrying me, love. And then, despite your protests, despite everything, he's at your door, bringing the outside world crashing in.

Harry. He smiles in that soft, crooked way of his, the one that's meant to make you melt. Normally, it does. Normally, it undoes you. Tonight, you're unbreakable, solid and shut tight against the world. He's trying to draw you out, careful and steady, like always. "You weren't answering," he says, setting down a bag of groceries, eyes full of the concern you haven't been able to return. "Thought I should check in."

"Sorry," you say. It's hollow, even to your own ears. "Just been—out of it." You don't tell him about the thing on the bathroom counter, now in the trash, the parasite eating away at every other thought. You don't know how. Not yet. Not when everything feels so fragile.

"You don't have to talk," he says, settling next to you, close enough to touch. He's so warm and alive and there, and you, feeling like a ghost, can't move any closer. "But I wish you would."

You nod, trying for a smile that doesn't quite reach your lips. You're trying not to imagine what he would do, what he would say. The night is a black pit, and your thoughts tumble down it, one after another.

He cooks you dinner, soup and bread, something that smells like comfort and tastes like love. You manage a few spoonfuls, but the nausea creeps back, and you push it away before you have to run to the bathroom. He looks hurt, maybe, or just worried. It's hard to tell. He cleans up while you lie back down, the ceiling and its fissures coming back into view. You don't move, barely even blink, as he pulls the covers over you. "I'll let you sleep," he says, a gentleness in his voice that only twists the knife.

You're not sure what to say, so you just say thank you. He kisses your forehead, lingers there, breath warm on your skin. "I'm here," he whispers. You know what he means, but you're not ready to let him in. Not when the truth might be more than either of you can handle.

The door closes behind him. You think of calling him back, catching him before he leaves, saying what needs to be said. But you're a coward and a liar, and all you can do is stare at the small white stick, unblinking, as it burns a hole through the dark. When the sob comes, it takes you by surprise, ragged and whole. It is the only thing in the room that sounds like you.