Liberate • Harry Styles

thirty-six.

A lightbulb might as well appear over my head with the striking idea I was getting.

Morning sickness.

A recent crutch that could now turn into an ally. Puke on him, catch him off guard, take the emergency stairs. Sounds fūcking ridiculous, but at the same time...

In a moment of spontaneity, I did it. I felt the sickness climb from the pit of my stomach, burn my esophagus, climb my throat, escape from my mouth. Niall's strong grip on me released the second the sick hit him, his hands instinctively moving to cover his face.

Jumping up, I raced towards the elevator door and realized I would never make it down in time if I took the elevator. My eyes frantically landed on the emergency staircase and I threw open the door, flying down the flights of stairs. I heard my footsteps on the cold metal underneath me, followed by Niall's in hot pursuit, and surprisingly, joined by another set. I jumped down a few stairs and looked up to see Harry's brown boots collide with Niall's expensive dress shoes as the boys fell to the floor above me.

My eyes were locked on Harry's fists colliding with Niall's head and my feet stumbled on the steps, distracted briefly by the scene one flight above me. My hands frantically searched for the railing, failing to grip the cold bar just centimetres away from my fingertips. Instead of securing myself, I fell to the ground, hitting my head on the nearby wall and hurtling awkwardly towards the metal flooring. My vision returned to the familiar black environment I had long become accustomed to, and my final thoughts fleeted towards the unborn child in my stomach as I fell unconscious.

***

Having my consciousness fade back into the real world and awakening to a hospital room was common terrain at this point – hearing the beeping of the heart monitor, smelling the bleach detergent used to wash the cheaply thin sheets that covered my aching body. However, the intense cramping in my lower abdomen and the warm feeling spreading between my legs was definitely out of place.

So, as my eyes fluttered open and settled on Harry and a thin doctor standing at the foot of my bed, the first words that came out of my mouth were worried and strained. "Something's not right."

Harry's eyes flashed with worry, and I took in his reaction to my statement. I was grateful for his presence, recalling that as I fell, my only thoughts were on my baby and him. It was always him.

I observed Harry as his hand flew to his mouth, long fingers playing with his bottom lip. His brow, knit in a furrow, beneath a cut on his forehead and paired with sweaty, knotted hair. His knuckles, broken and bleeding, caught my attention as for a minute I was distracted from my body and the uncomfortable feeling I was experiencing.

The thin doctor, bearing the nametag Dr. Faloumi, shot a silent glance towards Harry and walked from the foot of the bed to my side, positioning herself so that she could casually sit on the stool at my bedside. Her warm, elegantly long hand rested on top of mine and her kind eyes found mine. "Hello Violet. It's nice to see you awake. I'm Dr. Faloumi."

I gave her a slight nod. "Hello Doctor. Do you mind telling me what's wrong with me?"

Dr. Faloumi smiled sympathetically. "My dear, you took quite a fall. You hit your head."

The doctor gestured up, and my hand felt my head. I realized I had a cut that mirrored Harry's, except mine was bandaged and clean.

"That isn't it." I pointed out the obvious.

"Yes, well I was just getting to that," Dr. Faloumi could no longer meet my eyes. "Violet, you've had a miscarriage."

The news hit me like a tonne of bricks and my hand flew to my mouth in shock.