A/N: Wow. I wasn’t sure there was a part 6 to this story, but apparently there is. Thank you to my lovely betas ( @little-black-dress-24, @niallandharrymakemestrong, @melissas173, @emulateharry) who never fail to prop me up when I’m not sure I can do it. Thank you, ladies. You are all gems.
After leaving Harry’s house with your loaded bag, you walk a few blocks before you flag down a cab. You feel like you’ve just experienced a three hour workout, your limbs limp. The exhaustion and weariness is so deep that you swear you can feel it at a molecular level. It hurts to raise your hand to flag the taxi. Lifting your duffel bag into the back seat with you is like tossing around a 25kg bag of rocks. Climbing into the taxi, you lean your head back, closing your eyes, holding back tears with sheer willpower.
Hauling yourself upstairs to your flat, you drop your duffel just inside the door, falling face first onto the bed without removing your clothes. Heaving sobs wrack your shoulders. The screams that you hide in your pillow sound like a wounded animal. Your howling scares you, as you’ve never heard this sound from the depths of your stomach before, but you can’t seem to stop. You cry and sob and scream until you are completely spent, and then you just lie on your bed, staring at the ceiling, completely numb, feeling the time ticking away as slowly as a snail attempting to run a marathon. When your alarm goes off, you haven’t once closed your eyes, and they feel like sandpaper as you haul yourself out of bed to take a shower. Oh, how you wish you could stay home and wallow, watching sad movies, listening to Sign of the Times nonstop, eating ice cream out of the container with a single spoon. But you have clients to see, reporters and fans to avoid.