Page 35 of The Moment I Met You
‘I’m not talking about your arm, Elena. I’m talking about the trauma you’ve been through. I’m talking about the way Harry’s injuries might affect your life. I’m talking about everything that has been taken away from you. I’m talking about the baby. Ever since Harry came out of the coma, it’s like you don’t exist any more – it’s like all you worry about is him.’
I close my eyes, and sigh. He is, of course, correct. I am in pain. I have lost a lot, and I have kept that loss to myself, as though keeping it to myself might make it smaller.
At first, I did consider telling Harry about the miscarriage – but he is simply not in a place where he can hear news like that. Where he can take any additional pressure. That might change; there might be a time for that conversation – but that time is not now. I can’t protect him from much, but I can protect him from that. For now at least.
I’ve also, though, not talked to Alex about it, even though I know he would always listen, without judgement, without expectation.
‘I know. I just … can’t, Alex. I know this is stupid, but part of me has decided that if I try hard enough not to think about it, it will go away.’
‘That’s not how grief works, Elena. You know that. But this is your journey, not mine, and it’s not my job to tell you how to get through all of this. Just know that I’m here if you need me.’
‘Avoiding winter in Stockholm and wooing the fair Bettina?’
‘Exactly.’
‘It’ll be strange, won’t it?’ I say, reaching out to touch his fingers with mine. ‘When we do leave? When you’re in Sweden and I’m in London and we go back to our normal lives. When we don’t have this to watch every night. When we don’t get to chat to each other so much?’
‘We’ll still talk,’ he says. ‘And … well. It doesn’t have to be that different. We can call each other. We can meet up. It’ll be okay. Anyway – you might not go back to London, or at least not stay there. What about your plans? What about travelling and seeing the world?’
‘That,’ I say, ‘now seems like the very definition of wishful thinking.’
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ he insists. ‘It just feels like that now – like your choices have narrowed.’
‘That’s a nice way of looking at it, but I don’t even feel like my choices have narrowed, to be honest. I feel like they’ve disappeared completely. Buried, along with everything else.’
‘There are always choices. It just doesn’t feel like it sometimes. And they’re not always good ones either.’
He holds my hand in both of his, and strokes the skin of my palm with his fingertips. There is a moment, when the sun finally concedes defeat and the light changes from shimmering twilight to star-strewn darkness, where we simply sit in silence, hands entwined.
There is a moment where one of us could say something – where one of us could acknowledge what is happening here, the way we feel. A moment when we could take a different path, turn a different corner, find a different future.
There is a moment, and then it is gone – neither of us quite ready to face it. When I am with him, I do not doubt it, this connection – but when we are apart, I manage to convince myself that it isn’t real. That there is no way these feelings could have grown so quickly.
When I am away from him, in a more muted world, I tell myself that the fizz I feel in his company, the tremor I feel when he touches me, the comfort I feel when we huddle together and watch the sunset, isn’t real. That it’s only there because of what we have endured together.
That it is fleeting. That it will pass. That it will fade away, glorious but transient, like the sun sinking down into the hills. It’s too complicated to accept anything else. I tell myself that my focus, my loyalty, must be with Harry, who needs me.
Sometimes, I even believe it.
‘Right,’ I say, standing up and sighing. ‘Back to reality.’
He nods, and climbs to his feet. I pass him his crutches, and we make our way to the lifts. Down to our floor of the hospital, where we will go our separate ways. He will return to his side ward and I will meander back to Harry’s room.
We pause in the corridor, people flowing around us.
‘What can I do?’ he asks. ‘To cheer you up?’
I smile, and stand on tippy-toes to give him a peck on the cheek.
‘You’re doing enough,’ I reply. ‘And I appreciate you more than I can say. More than I should say. See you tomorrow?’
‘See you tomorrow. Same time, same sunset.’
Chapter 14
It takes a few more days for the TV interview to be arranged. I am not delighted with it, but a glance at Harry as he gets ready tells me it is the right thing for him.
He’s propped up on pillows in his bed, his hair tousled, wearing a fresh black T-shirt. It makes his pale skin stand out, giving him a broodily handsome look, as though he is a Romantic poet caught out of time. He seems to have more energy, more positivity, than I’ve seen in him since he woke up from the coma.
