#yet im not perfect enough and i become a burden and that emptiness deepens

[harrieatthemet]

Lucky Numbers

One where Y/N and Harry earned this, at least they thought they did.

*I just really want to apologize for this one. Seriously im so sorry.*

Thirty One.

You’ve never believed in lucky numbers, never found any interest in having one, never saw the purpose in it either. And when people would talk about their lucky numbers, 1 or 5, 7 or 12, you’d discreetly roll your eyes. 

Up until now, because now you’ll tell anyone and everyone that 31 is your luckiest number. 

31 times, that’s how many times you had to take a pregnancy test. And it wasn’t until the 31st try that it came out positive. It took 31 different names to try and find the perfect one, and Harry was over the moon with the 31st name. 

And now you were here, in London, along with Harry for tour and 31 days exactly away from the start of your third trimester.

All the prayers had been answered, every dream had been fulfilled, and every tear simultaneously dried up. After what felt like millions of years trying so unthinkably hard for something that was supposed to be so easily achievable, you’ve got it. Both of you do, and you’re not sure who’s happier about it.

“G’mornin’ button,” he coos, a quick peck delivered to your temple, before he moves to the small peak of your belly “g’mornin’ bump.” 

He can’t help himself. Even if he could, he doesn’t think he could stop. Fondling your bump, that small little bump, showering it with fluttery kisses, singing to it, talking to it, all of it has become a typical part of both of your everyday routines. It’s why you’re here, alongside him during all the hectic traveling for tour, struggling to shimmy on a pair of jeans that have become too tight as of today. 

A wardrobe meeting was 15 minutes away from commencing, he knew that, though it didn’t keep him from scrambling to mute the reminder on his phone so you wouldn’t scold him for lingering in the hotel room. But he couldn’t leave, not just yet. Staying here, sitting behind you on the mangled sheets of the hotel bed was too inviting, as he watched you in the mirror while you fiddled with your hair.

“Y’so sexy,” He breathes, smile crooked and eyes bright, “so sexy, all full o’ me, carrying my baby.”

“Stop it,” you smirk, giving up on your hair and throwing it up into a bun, “m’not, I feel so round you’ll have t’book me an entire row on the flight back home.”

The cackle that comes from him permeates the whole room, and you give him one of those serious looks, forcing him to swallow that breathy laugh, before encouraging him to hoist himself up off the bed and place himself behind you.

“Yeh not tha’ big,” he playful admonishes, “yet, anyways.”

“This is really helping,” you answer sarcastically, “thank you!”

“S’a baby in there, love,” he sings, “growin’ is a good thing, yeah? We worked for this, should enjoy it.”

His words of encouragement, in unison with the small circular strokes his palms make on the base of your petit swollen belly, begin to resonate in your head. You wanted this, so badly, both of you did. And the bigger that belly grew, the fatter you felt and the more sluggish you became, symbolized all of the effort that it took to get there. 

He’s out the door only minutes later, after you had to practically force him out. The strews of ‘be carefuls’ and lectures about how Gemma should keep a close eye on you, on the bump, were bordering annoying. 

“Gettin’ so big, yeah?” Gemma gawks, hands gently cupping the swell of your belly.

“5 months now,” you smile, “she keeps growing.”

She reminds herself to hand you an extra sweater before the two you venture off for an early dinner, upon Harry’s request. Something about it being a little chilly out, and how he expressed to her that it was crucial you keep yourself at a cozy temperature. But thus far, you’ve learned there’s no use in protesting his quirky requests, whether he was present or not. 

But amidst the frantic search for the bulky grey knit sweater Gemma swore she left on the kitchen counter, while she’s running around the first level of her flat searching for the damn thing, you feel it.

That first sharp pain, just in the side of your stomach, though barely there you still feel it. And of course, you downplay it. It goes ignored for a few more moments, until you feel the second one, and this time it’s not as easy to ignore. 

Your hand flies to your oblique, gently pressing up against it in attempt to get the pain to subside. And that’s when Gemma finds the fucking sweater, and she appears back by the front door with it draped over her forearm. 

“(Y/N),” Gemma starts, a gilder of concern in her tone “y’alright?”

“Can I just sit for a minute?” You choke out, and she nods anxiously, “Just a minute, s’all I need.”

And you waddle over to the lounging area, because now the pain is occurring more frequently, more painfully. She’s gotta help you sit down too, and she’s on full alert when you sit down with a loud hiss. 

“Need me t’call Harry?”

“No,” you demand, before softening your tone “no, it’s fine. Just cramping a little, it’ll go away in a minute.”

But it’s already been five, and instead of going away, it’s getting a little bit more and more unbearable. Gemma, though she’s an absolute saint, isn’t helping much either, as she nervously sits vertical from you with eyebrows knit in worry and leg jumping from anxiety. She wants to call Harry, so badly, but she won’t if you really prefer she didn’t.

“M’just gonna get some water,” you breath out hastily, “m’probably dehydrated or something.”

And she insists on getting it for you, begs even, to which you object. Because just because you’re pregnant doesn’t mean you can’t pour yourself a glass of water, and you’re determined to get this pain to quit. 

It’s when you get up, when you’re fully off the couch and near the door, that a worried sigh elicits itself from Gemma. 

“Oh (Y/N),” she gasps, “think y’bleeding.”

“Don’t think I am,” you argue, “I’m fine, Gemma, really.”

“No (Y/N),” she insists, “mean it, s’all over the couch.”

You turn to look, ready to pick a fight, because you’re not bleeding. You can’t be, there’s no way. You’re already 5 months along, in love with this little bump, the happiest you’ve ever been. 31 days away from your third trimester. 31 is your lucky number.

But you see it. In fact you’re painfully aware of it, and upon looking at the grizzly scene on Gemma’s beautiful white sofa, you can feel a foreign dampness in your pants. And the pain is still there, clear as day and sharp as ever, that’s when reality sets in. So does panic.

“Can you call Harry now?”

Now you’re laying flat on your back, in a hospital in the city, an unfamiliar one. There are people chattering in the hallway, doctors congregating outside your hospital wing. All of it is white noise. It’s a little cold in here, and you start thinking about how you should’ve taken that grey knit sweater from Gemma earlier. 

There’s a certain sense of loneliness, an indescribable kind of empty feeling. There’s nobody in the room right now, so it’s just you. Only you and your fleeting thoughts, as Gemma went to phone Anne outside of the room, and the both of you awaited Harry’s arrival. 

“Harry’s on his way up,” Gemma reemerges, a sorry smile on her face, “should be in soon, okay?” 

“Alright.”

The flatness in your tone, lack of emotion, it breaks her heart. And she knows that there’s not much to be said, nothing she says can help right now. It’s why she excuses herself quietly when Harry rounds the corner, hustling into the hospital room out of breath and flustered.

“Okay,” he sighs solemnly, “okay, s’alright. M’right here.”

“I’m so sorry.” You croak out, and his frown only deepens.

Sorry? He’s having a hard time believing the word just came from your mouth. He’s disappointed, sure, and undeniably heartbroken, of course. But there’s nothing for you to be sorry for, nothing you could have done to change the unlucky outcome of this. It makes his chest adopt a hallow ache, one thats worse than the ache that appeared earlier after receiving the news about the miscarriage over the phone.

He settles himself next to you, nestling himself between your body and the rails of the hospital bed. And he’s quick to hush you, quick to tuck a piece of hair hanging in your face to behind your ear, placing a kiss to your temple identical to the one he had given you earlier in the afternoon.

“Don’t want yeh t’carry this burden on y’own,” he murmurs kindly, “can’t fight fate, was jus’ meant t’be.” 

“Didn’t want this to be my fate” Your voice is so small, and shaky, he swears he can feel his heart cracking.

The small, incoherent sniffle that comes from you is enough to break the heart in his chest. There’s so much he wants to say to you right now, so much he wants to do to make this less painful. But he knows none of it will help, none of it can cure the solemn feeling that’s enveloping you, enveloping him. So badly, he wants to take all this hurt from you and carry it himself, feel all your pain and sorrow so you don’t have to, but he can’t, and all he can seem to do that is right is hold you like he is. 

“Gonna,” he exhales, shakily, “gonna put off these next couple ‘o shows. Take a little time off, just you ‘nd me, yeah? S’gonna work out, promise yeh.”

Lucky numbers return to being nothing more than a myth. Because you were sure now that 31 was the unluckiest number of them all.