"Stay," Harry whispers desperately, pressing his lips to Taylor's temple like he can somehow ease the pain that's blooming there, but he can't make the pain stop and no matter how hard he tries he can't make Taylor stay.

1. It starts with the headaches.
Which isn't so unusual, really — they're on break, technically, but it's still weeks on end of being shuttled
from one place to another with interviewers gabbing in their ears, repeating the same goddamned
questions over and over and fucking over and it's so exhausting Taylor thinks she might explode if one
more person asks how his relationship is going.
Fine, she answers. Great, even. It really is. Just not with Calvin.
They don't need to know that, though.
And they don't, but they still keep asking, and three weeks into promo Taylor truly feels like her head is
going to explode, like her brain is pulsing right against her skull. It's horrible and no matter how many
times she masturbates or pain pills and glasses of water and tea she swallows it doesn't let up; the pain
subsides some but never truly goes away.
It's frustrating, but not alarming. Not yet.
Home, Taylor thinks. Home. She just can't wait to get home, where she can kick off her pants and curl up
under the covers and close her eyes and sleep for an hour or maybe ten until her brain is fully rested
and not feeling like it's about to burst through her skull. But for now she’s trapped in the back of a car
with Harry and a driver who apparently doesn't understand that silence is golden.
If she were in a better mood, Taylor might just engage him in conversation, talking excitedly and
laughing at his poor excuses for jokes but right now she’s just not in the mood, and Harry notices. Of
course he does. Harry notices everything.
1

2. "Your head again, hm?" Harry mumbles, lips pressed to Taylor’s temple. Taylor just nods weakly, making
a soft whining noise and cuddling into Harry's side. Her head is still throbbing, but with her face buried
in Harry's stupid, expensive leather jacket, it's a little better because all she can smell is Harry, all warm
and familiar and home. God, she can't wait to get home.
They arrive at their flat just as Taylor has started dozing. Harry thanks the driver, quick and polite -
always so professional, he is - before looping a hand over Taylor’s shoulder and tugging her towards the
door, urging her to be quick. Nobody knows where this flat is, but there's always been the chance of
someone catching sight of them and following them home. Their drivers are usually good about making
sure they aren't followed, looping around the neighborhood until any hangers-on are hopelessly
confused, but Harry likes to be sure, anyway.
Taylor toes off her shoes as soon as she’s through the front door, making a beeline for the couch and
burying her face in a terribly tacky and uncomfortable decorative pillow. She feels the couch dip slightly
under Harry's weight as he sits down next to her, warm hand on her back, smoothing down her shirt and
Taylor feels all the tension leave his body, turning to give Harry a grateful smile.
Harry grins back, all dimples and teeth, patting his lap invitingly and Taylor loves him so much she could
die as she crawls over and rests her head in Harry's warm lap. Harry's hands are on her before she’s
even gotten settled, fingers stroking through her hair and scratching her scalp lightly. Taylor hums
appreciatively, nuzzling into Harry's hand.
"Good, love?" Harry asks gently, fingers pressing lightly on her temple and Taylor manages a soft uh-huh
before she drifts off, wrapped up in Harry's touch and scent and it almost scares her to think she’ll never
be as happy as she is when she’s in Harry's arms.
2

3. When she wakes up, the sky outside the window is dark, her head is still in Harry's lap, The Notebook is
playing on the television, and she has to puke.
It's, like. her head is throbbing, pain no longer dull but sharp and clawing at every inch of her, and she
can feel it, can feel it crawling up her throat and she doesn't even have time to give Harry a fair warning
before she jerks herself away, staggering towards the hallway bathroom and she knows she won't make
it to the toilet so she aims for the sink, instead, spewing breakfast and lunch and the really good iced tea
she’d been drinking in the car into the pretty marble sink with the shiny silver faucet.
She barely has time to recover before she hears Harry's footsteps approaching, socked feet on carpet
and then a large hand is on her back, heat seeping through her shirt and coming to curl around her spine
like a napping cat.
"Hey," Harry says gently, moving closer so his hip is bumping Taylor’s waist, smoothing back the sweaty
fringe from Taylor’s forehead and Taylor is still gasping, out of breath, knuckles white as she clutches
the edge of the counter. The pain is a little better now, reduced to a dull ache, like her head is being
very, very slowly squeezed by a vice instead of, say, crushed under the weight of an anvil. "Babe," he
tries again, fingers gently tugging at her arm. "What can I do?"
When she can finally breathe again, nausea still coming and going in waves, Taylor croaks out, "Water.
Please." Harry is nodding, out the door and clomping on down the hall towards the kitchen before
Taylor can press her back against the wall, sliding to sit on the cool tiled floor. It feels wonderful against
her burning skin and she shifts so she can lie down, pressing her temple and she has to bite back a groan
of relief, eyes slipping shut. It's so nice. It'd probably be nicer if it weren't the tile in their guest
bathroom, but she's going to take what she can get.
She's so lost in the feeling of the freezing tiles soothing her throbbing head that she doesn't even see
Harry coming back down the hallway until he's at Taylor’s side, panic-stricken voice slicing through the
quiet like a knife and Taylor jerks up, only to find Harry with one hand clutching a glass of ice water, the
other pressed over his chest like he's nearly had a heart attack.
"Sorry," Taylor mumbles, embarrassed, but not too embarrassed to pry the glass from Harry's hand and
take an almost painfully large gulp of water. "Just resting. Felt nice on my head."
3

4. Harry's eyes are wide, still coming down from the fright of finding his girlfriend lying motionless on the
bathroom floor, but he cracks a tiny smile anyway. "You goof," he mutters, fingers smoothing across
Taylor’s forehead. Checking for a fever, Taylor realizes, practically swooning at the gesture.
"You don't feel warm," Harry says finally, standing and extending a hand to Taylor, pulling her up and
promptly sweeping her off his feet, gathering her up in his arms.
"Harry," she protests weakly, slamming tiny fists against Harry's broad chest in vain. "Let me down."
Harry just grins, that little shit, and carries her up the stairs, depositing her gently onto their shared bed
like she's precious cargo before crawling onto the bed next to her, lying on his belly and kicking his legs
up, crossing and uncrossing them like a child. It's ridiculously endearing and Taylor kind of wants to kiss
him.
"Harry," Taylor repeats, rolling over to get some distance from her favorite boy in the world. "'I’m sick.
I’m gonna get you all germy."
Harry chuckles fondly, rolling over so he's just as close to Taylor as when he started. "Don't care. Gonna
take care of you, babe." He rests a warm hand on Taylor’s belly and her stomach flutters when she
realizes yet again just how large Harry's hands are, covering almost the entire span of her torso. Harry
notices too, murmuring a fond, "So little. My little Tay."
And, yeah. Taylor could get used to this.
4

5. What she hasn't gotten used to, however, is the constant vomiting. Emphasis on constant. It's been just
over a week since she first emptied the contents of her stomach into the sink in the downstairs
bathroom, but it's just getting worse. It feels like every time she's puked her guts and then some into
the toilet there's another brick weighing down her stomach, bile burning her throat. Eventually, she
gives in and drags a pillow and blanket into the bathroom she shares with Harry and camps out in the
tub.
When Harry finds her there, cocooned in blankets in the porcelain tub, half-asleep and drooling just a
bit, he does two things. First, he laughs. Second, he scoops Taylor up and before Taylor can even protest
she's in the fucking doctor's office with Harry's fingers tracing patterns on the back of her hand, feeling
more nauseous than she ever did in her little bath fort.
But it's nothing. The doctor checks her vitals, asks about her symptoms, tells her to get lots of rest, drink
lots of fluids and take some Advil. That's it.
Taylor’s glare on the way home nearly burns a hole in the back of Harry's head.
It's been four days of following the doctor's orders to an exact t, but the pain is Taylor’s head is worse
than ever, like her brain is going to come oozing out her ears any second. Harry nearly laughs till he cries
at the analogy, but still follows the outburst with a, "Sorry, baby. Here, let me help," and resumes
massaging Taylor’s scalp with gentle fingers. It helps more than Taylor cares to admit, but the second
Harry's fingers are gone the pain seems to triple, so extreme at times she sees stars.
"Gonna make you another doctor's appointment in the morning," Harry mumbles later that evening
when they're curled up under the covers, seeing how long they can procrastinate until Harry has to go
make them something to eat. "Hate seeing you like this."
"Me too," Taylor grumbles, burying her face in a pillow and trying to ignore the tears prickling at her
eyes because it fucking hurts, dammit, and no matter how much Tylenol she swallows, it never ceases
and she's never experienced pain this bad for such an extended period of time and she just wants it to
stop.
5

6. "Want me to make dinner now?" Harry suggests, propping himself up on his elbows, hair falling into his
eyes and the sight makes Taylor bite back a grin, shaking her head to the best of her ability without
further upsetting her pounding head.
"In a little bit," she says, knocking Harry's elbows out from underneath him so Harry falls back onto the
bed with a quiet oof. "Just stay here a while."
A while turns out to be something like half an hour in which Taylor drifts in and out of consciousness
while Harry cuddles him from behind. Then, without warning he's saying, "Gonna make dinner now,
boo," and before Taylor can protest he's gone and Taylor is cold and alone.
The pain in her head is still very much present, but has let up a bit, so naturally she gets up very, very
slowly and follows Harry downstairs to the kitchen where he's rattling around in the cupboard, looking
for something. His face lights up adorably when he finds the gleaming silver spot he's apparently been
looking for, setting it in the stove and fiddling with the knobs before becoming aware of Taylor’s
presence.
"You should rest," he says simply, and it should sound demanding but this is Harry and it ends up
sounding more like a suggestion. Taylor shakes her head — oops, too fast, wincing as a fresh bolt of pain
strikes her skull and she stumbles forward into Harry's embrace.
"Wanna stay with you and pick up on your magnificent culinary skills," she mumbles into Harry's shirt,
lower lip jutting out in a pout and she knows Harry can't say no to that.
She's right. Harry grins, always so fond, reaching to absently swipe a few stray strands of hair from her
face. "Okay. Right now this culinary master needs to take a wee, so." He gives Taylor a terribly goofy,
endearing look before trotting off awkwardly down the hall, and Taylor can't help the giggle that
escapes her lips because she loves Harry, can't imagine ever loving anyone half as much as she loves
Harry.
6

7. Feeling cheeky, she peers into the pot on the stove and, finding it empty, leans against the counter,
striking a ridiculous pose and waiting for Harry to return.
It's footsteps coming down the hall and the giddy, nervous feeling she gets around Harry even after all
this time and she's expecting Harry to chuckle something like ‘You're ridiculous; and maybe fuck her
against the wall if she's lucky, which she almost always is.
Except not this time, because Harry's eyes are warm and friendly but upon further inspection go wide
with what Taylor identifies as panic; later, she realizes maybe it was fear.
"Taylor!" And just like that Harry is across the room, yanking her away from the stove and shoving her
left hand under the tap, and, oh. The skin of her palm is puckered and colored an angry pink. That's
usually a thing somebody would notice, Taylor notes mentally, pursing her lips with her brow furrowing
in confusion. Even now, it should hurt, but it doesn't. Not really. A little bit, but the pain is so distant it's
hard to tell if it even belongs to her.
Harry is quiet as he holds Taylor’s hand under the water for what seems like days but is most likely just a
few minutes, eyes downcast and this stupid look of concern on his face that kind of makes Taylor want
to cry but all she can do it stare at her rapidly reddening hand and wonder why she didn't feel it —
surely she should have felt something, right? It's surprising, because Taylor certainly isn't known for her
high pain tolerance and even someone like Harry who could probably be whipped across his bare back
and tread on with his tongue between his teeth would surely notice something like that.
After a few minutes, Harry turns off the tap. "Stay here," he instructs Taylor, voice soft but firm, and the
second he leaves the room Taylor has her back pressed against the cabinets, feeling her legs give out as
she sinks to the tile, staring in awe at the blistering burn on her hand. This is a dream. It has to be a
dream. She doesn't know what's happening and she's not so much afraid as she is completely
bewildered. It feels suddenly like she's trying to look at the world through a haze.
7

8. Harry returns holding gauze bandages that Taylor didn't even know they had, but with a tiny smirk on
her face she realizes Harry must have an entire first aid kit stashed somewhere, just in case. He's
painfully gentle, crouching down and wrapping around the burn gently, from Taylor’s wrist to her
knuckles, secure but not tight enough to irritate the skin there. Once he's done, he cuts off the excess
and places it on the counter, eyes still trained on Taylor’s face.
"Why did you do that?" he asks simply, voice less suspicious and more concerned.
Taylor frowns, blinking at him. "Do what?"
"You burned yourself, love."
"Oh," Taylor laughs a little, trying to lighten the mood because Harry thinks she did it on purpose. "No, I
just...didn't notice."
Harry cocks his head a little, clearly confused. "What do you mean you didn't notice?"
Taylor doesn't know how to explain, because the mores he thinks about it the crazier it sounds. "I didn't
notice. I didn't feel it. I didn't even realize it was happening until you pulled me away." She chews her
lip, and as she watches Harry's face darken, she almost wishes he had done it on purpose.
Harry drags her kicking and screaming to the hospital after that. Not just the regular, ho-hum doctor's
office, but the goddamned ER and Taylor has never been more embarrassed, because she's just tired
and under the weather and Harry is making a big fuss out nothing and oh, god, she hates needles and
8

9. hospitals and doctors, hates people touching her and pressing cold metal to her skin and making her
breathe in out in out so consciously, and by the time it's her turn to be checked she's nearly in tears.
The nurse takes her blood pressure and heart rate and temperature and she doesn't look worried, not in
the slightest, which only further confirms for Taylor what she already knows; she's fine, just ill.
It's all fine and dandy, as Taylor explains with crossed arms the headaches and the vomiting and the
doctor (who identified himself as Dr. Ben Allen but Taylor doesn't care because all doctors are the same)
nods, posture loose and open as he jots down notes on a clipboard. He seems about ready to prescribe
Taylor some painkillers and a few days of bed rest and lots of fluids when Harry interrupts, rather rudely
if Taylor has a say.
"The burn," Harry says simply, eyes dark and he's not looking at Taylor but at the floor, playing
absentmindedly with the rings on his fingers. "You forgot about the burn."
Taylor shoots him a glare, suddenly all too aware of the gauze wrapped around her hand and she fights
the urge to hide it behind her back.
The doctor raises his eyebrows at Taylor. "What burn?"
Taylor holds out her wrapped hand miserably, wrist limp and she fucking hates Harry, she really does.
She just wants to go home and this is undoubtedly going to keep them here at least another twenty
minutes. "Burned my hand on the stove. No big deal."
Harry's head snaps up. "But you didn't feel it. That's a big deal. Isn't it?" He turns towards the doctor,
eyes wide and pleading and Taylor feels guilty for ever being angry at somebody so lovely and
concerned for her well-being, huffing out a sigh.
The doctor looks confused, so Taylor quickly jumps in to explain before Harry can. "I was leaning against
the stove and I guess it was burning my hand and I didn't notice until Harry said something and I saw it.
9

10. Like, it didn't hurt," she explains, feeling her gut sink because there's something wrong with her,
because who the hell doesn't feel something like that?
No. She's tired. Just tired and overworked and in need of a really long rest.
The doctor nods, eyes looking a little clouded over, like he's deep in thought. "I'm going to have a nurse
come in and go through a few quick neurological tests with you. Nothing fancy, just the stuff you used to
do in the nurse's office in secondary school." His smile is warm, comforting, and Taylor nods, sighing.
She's so tired, and it's late and she just wants to cuddle up with Harry under the covers and maybe
watch late-night cartoons until she falls asleep.
So the nurse comes in and the doctor was right, it is exactly what they used to do in secondary school
every year or so. She's friendly and chipper, like she's had too much caffeine (she must have to, with a
job like this, Taylor thinks bitterly). She has to do stupid things like follow her finger with her eyes and
walk across the room, heel-to-toe in a straight line and she feels so stupid and childish with Harry sitting
in a chair in the corner, watching.
Finally, the nurse thanks her and pats her gingerly on the back and then she's gone and finally Dr. Allen
comes back, just as Taylor is sure she's going to pass out on the linoleum.
Dr. Allen is still smiling, but this time it's small and tight and Taylor feels a rush of panic before forcing
herself to think rationally. The doctor is probably tired, too. That's why. Nothing's wrong. She's okay. She
gets to go home now and tomorrow she'll wake up, warm in Harry's arms and have Harry make her
pancakes, maybe, if her stomach will let her.
It's quiet for almost a full minute, the only sound coming from the soft, constant tick tick tick of the clock
mounted on the wall by the door.
"I'd like to run a few tests," he says finally. "Just standard procedure. An MRI and a CT scan, most likely.
They won't take long, I assure you, and then you can be on your way."
10

11. "Fine. Just wanna get it over with," Taylor snaps. She's pouting now, truly a petulant child with eyes
glistening with tears because she's so damn tired.
Dr. Allen looks a little taken aback by Taylor’s sharp response, but nods. "Alright, then. Let's get on with
it."
"The results of the tests will take a couple of days at most," Dr. Allen says when they're all finally done,
and Taylor is truly half asleep. "We'll let you know."
Taylor is too sleepy to say anything, so Harry steps in for her, shaking his hand firmly. "Thank you,
Doctor."
Tired as she is, Taylor doesn't miss the way Harry's eyes flicker towards her, the darkest she's ever seen
them and burning wild with fear.
They never actually use the word cancer. Or maybe they do, but that isn't until they've already used the
word glioblastoma, grade four which is somehow a thousand times worse as they stare blankly at the
light box on the wall, displaying Louis' MRI results and she's certainly no expert but the white mass
invading his frontal lobe isn't supposed to be there and her entire body is shaking, mind racing because
it all makes sense. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
11

12. Taylor doesn't even have time to react before Harry is blurting out a shaky, "So what are the options?"
His hand tightens instinctively around Taylor’s.
Not many, it turns out, because Taylor has cancer and it's of the incurable, brain-eating variety and fuck,
when did it get so cold in here? She can't stop shaking and the whole world is spinning. Dr. Allen is still
talking, tight, grim smile on his face and Taylor wants to punch it off because he's using words like bad,
but not hopeless except it is hopeless because, well. She can have them poke around in her head and
feed her drugs through plastic tubing but the gist of this entire conversation is that she's going to die.
"They were supposed to be just headaches," she whimpers helplessly, wanting to disappear when Harry
lets out this little choking sob next to her, hand curling around Taylor's arm and tugging her close but
Taylor tugs back. She doesn't want anyone to touch her. Her skin itches, like she needs to shed it all and
start anew. She wants to sink into the ground and disappear into the very core of the earth, to become
part of the soil and rock and grass, to exist everywhere and nowhere simultaneously.
Instead, she stands up slowly and says, very quietly, "I think I need to puke," before walking out of the
room and stumbling down the clean white hospital hallway to the bathrooms, locking herself in a stall
and clutching the porcelain basin with shaking hands. She doesn't puke, though - just sits there, body
heaving but never quite enough to get her to empty the contents of her stomach and god, she wishes
she could because dread is coiling in her stomach like rope and she presses her forehead to the toilet
seat.
It's gross, but She doesn't care. It feels suddenly like all the life has drained out of her and she sits there,
limp and emotionless for a long, long time until Harry is pounding on the door, begging her to let him in.
His voice is loud and broken and Taylor can tell he's been crying. It feels like the entire world is falling
away around her and when she finally opens the door, shaking like a leaf, she collapses into Harry's
arms.
"'S gonna be okay," Harry whispers into her temple, smearing tears into her hair. Taylor isn't convinced,
but she follows Harry back to Dr. Allen's office anyway because what the fuck else is he supposed to do?
Once they're settled back in the uncomfortable plastic chairs and Harry has pulled Taylor’s chair so close
she's nearly in Harry's lap, the doctor smiles professionally. Taylor wonders how many people he's had
12

13. to tell they were dying. He's probably had lots of practice, from the look on his face, but the guilty look
in his eyes betrays him. Taylor’s stomach churns violently.
"So, treatment," Dr. Allen begins again, folding his hands on top of the stack of papers on his desk. "The
most common path is surgery; we can get a better look at it and remove a good portion of the tumor
that way, though how much we're able to remove is hard to determine at the moment."
Taylor doesn't want to hear it. Harry is listening raptly, though, and Taylor almost expects him to whip
out a pen and start taking notes. The thought makes her want to cry. She drifts in and out of the
conversation, all too aware of the knobs of her spine pressing against the cold back of the chair and that
her left sock has slipped off her heel, leaving her foot cold and uncomfortable. Drifting back to the
present, she tries desperately to tune back into what the doctor is saying. "...chemotherapy is always an
option," Dr. Allen says, lips pursed, and Taylor's heart is in her throat. "Unfortunately, it has proved in
the past to have very little effect on the life expectancy or even the comfort of brain tumor patients."
There's a low, guttural moan then and it takes Taylor a moment to realize she's the one making it.
"Again, Taylor," Dr. Allen says, and Taylor flinches because up until now she's only been addressed as
Ms. Swift. "It's all up to you."
"Can I..." Taylor begins, feeling the ache in her tummy grow and come crawling up her throat, like it's
going to pop out and glue her mouth shut before she can finish but she pushes on, desperate to get the
words out. "Can I have a few days to think about it?"
The doctor nods. "Absolutely. However - as is with all forms of brain cancer - time is of the essence."
Taylor knows he's seen and heard this a hundred times before. How many dead people does this guy
know? Taylor wonders. How many death sentences has he given out?
"Do you want to talk about it?" Harry asks on the car ride home, eyes rimmed red, chewing his lip
worriedly, and reaches out to rest his hand over Taylor’s. Taylor tugs away, almost instinctively, but the
look of hurt on Harry's face is enough to make her rethink it.
13

14. "Not really," she mumbles, pressing her nose against the glass and slipping her hand back into Harry's. A
beat of silence, then, "What about the band?"
"Fuck the band," Harry snaps and Taylor almost laughs at how very unlike himself Harry sounds right
now. "Sorry," he adds quickly, eyes apologetic and a little embarrassed. "It's just, you know. You're more
important."
"That doesn't even make sense," Taylor snorts, rolling her eyes. "They're not going to like that." She
doesn't need to specify who they are. Harry knows.
Squeezing Taylor’s hand, Harry says, "We'll figure it out."
Taylor does a lot of research, scrolling through articles on her phone or the computer from the minute
she wakes up to early hours of the morning, light from the screen hurting her eyes and certainly doing
nothing to help the pain in her head.
Not like anything is really going to help at this point.
And the doctor was right - there's not a lot they can do. There are medications she can take to help with
the tumor swelling and they can remove some of the tumor but even if they remove most of it she's still
going to die; removing it is only going to buy her an extra year or so, if she's lucky. A year of radiation
and chemo and constant hospital visits she doesn't want it, doesn't want any of this. She wants to see
her little brother graduate college, wants to buy a house with Harry, and wants to be allowed to hold his
hand on the street without there being backlash from fans and the media. She wants to go on tour again
next year, wants to travel more, she wants so much and there's just no time for it all, even with
treatment.
14

15. The average survival length for glioblasoma patients without treatment is four months. Maybe five.
It scares Taylor when her weary brain whispers, that's more than enough.
She's just so tired, is the thing.
It's two days, six hours, twenty two minutes and twelve seconds when Taylor makes her decision.
It hits her right in the chest like a bolt of lightning and she sits bolt upright in bed. Harry wakes up
immediately, reaching out for her.
"What's wrong, love?" he asks, voice hoarse from sleep and cracking with concern. It makes Taylor sad
that she knows he's going to have to get used to it.
But looking at Harry's tired eyes, she knows now isn't the best time to tell him. Maybe it'll be better to
tell him in the morning, when light is warming her face and her brain isn't so muddled with thoughts and
pain - so much pain. So instead she just lays back down, cuddling into Harry's chest and mumbling,
"Nothing, babe. Just a bad dream is all. Go back to sleep."
If Harry notices how badly she's shaking, he doesn't say anything.
15

16. "So," she begins quietly, so quietly she's not even sure Harry's heard her, but Harry's head jerks towards
her almost immediately. "I, um. I think I decided."
Harry's posture visibly stiffens and he mutes the tv, turning so he can look at Taylor head-on. "Okay," he
says, nodding jerkily and, shit, this is going to be harder than she'd hoped.
And all at once, Taylor can't do it.
She's not used to crying so much but now it feels like there's an endless supply of tears waiting to come
raining down her cheeks because she can't fucking do this. She doesn't want to die, but she's going to
die anyway, and she doesn't want them poking around in her head but if they don't she'll probably die
sooner but she doesn't want to live longer if it means she's going to be bedridden for months on end,
sleeping her days away and waking up not knowing where she is, but if she tells Harry the truth it's going
to kill her, because she knows Harry wants her to try. Harry wants to exhaust every single possibility,
and if he had it his way he'd let them poke around in Taylor’s brain and pump him full of poison if it
meant keeping the love of his life alive, and Taylor knows he means well, but. Harry's not the one with
the cancer.
"Hey, hey, c'mon now," Harry soothes, rubbing circles on Taylor’s back with his hand.
"Harry," she gasps, peeking out through her eyelashes that are heavy and dripping with tears, "Harry, I
don't want them poking around in my head."
"Tay," Harry murmurs sympathetically, fingers carding through her hair, clutching at her like he's scared
Taylor is just going to fade away. "Baby, I know you're scared b-"
"No, Harry," she cries, clutching Harry's shoulders and pushing herself up so she can look Harry in the
eyes. "No."
16

17. Harry is shaking, eyes glassy as he looks at Taylor helplessly. "What do mean, Taylor?"
"I mean I don't want them poking around in my head, or feeding me drugs through a tube or any of it, I
don't because it's going to get bad no matter what Harry, and I'm not sure I want to be around when
that happens." Taylor exhales shakily.
"Baby," Harry whispers, blinking in disbelief. "Are you...do you want to die?"
Taylor shakes her head quickly. "Of course I don't, but I'm going to anyway, Harry, don't you
understand? And I'm so scared but I don't want to like...I don't want to suffer...more than I have to.
Fuck. I don't know if that makes sense but I just. I don't know, Harry, I don't and I'm sorry." Her words
are only little gasps at this point before Harry grabs her chin and kisses him, hard, like they're running
out of time. And, well. They are.
"I'm sorry," Taylor whimpers when Harry pulls away, cheeks flushed prettily. "I love you so much, and
I'm sorry, and I understand if you don't want to stay."
Harry's brow furrows in confusion. "What do you mean, if I don't want to stay?" His face crumbles as the
realization dawns on him. "Oh, baby," he sighs, gathering Taylor up in his arms. "You know I'd never
leave. Would never fucking leave you, not ever."
Taylor is on the brink of a panic attack, desperately trying to convey her point to Harry. "You do realize
it's going to get bad, right? It's going to get bad, Haz. I'm going to get really, really bad and you're gonna
have to...like, care for me and it's going to be horrible." Her voice is barely a whisper.
"Do you really think I would leave now, of all times?" Harry looks wounded. "Don't care, Tay. Gonna take
care with you. Gonna stay with you. Forever, okay? I promised you forever and I meant it."
"You mean that now, but you're going to regret it," Taylor protests shakily.
17

18. Harry just pulls Taylor close, kissing her hair. "You're so brave, baby. I love you so much. You're so
brave."
Taylor blinks, confused. "You're not mad?"
Harry shakes his head, taking both Taylor's wrists in one hand and holding them down. "'M not mad.
Scared, yeah. Not mad, though." He closes his eyes, pressing their foreheads together. He's still shaking
a little. "Really scared."
"Me, too," Taylor says in a tiny voice, eyelashes fluttering against Harry's cheek.
They stay like that for a while, foreheads pressed together in the silence, breathing each other's air.
It's a Tuesday when her family.
"Do you want to tell them?" Harry asks softly, knocking their knees together and Taylor bites her lip,
thinking. She doesn't think she can.
Finally, Taylor shakes her head because she doesn't trust her voice. Andrea, Austin, and Scott stare at
her worriedly from the couch. The couch is more of a love seat and is really too small for all three of
them to be sitting on it, but they don't mind. She knows they'd make her and Harry come sit as well if
she hadn't insisted sitting with Harry instead. She thinks if she gets any closer to them she'll break.
"Okay. So me?" Harry clarifies, tilting Taylor’s chin up so he can look her in the eyes. Taylor merely nods,
almost positive she's about to be sick again and pressing her face into Harry's shoulder.
18

19. Harry takes a long, deep breath, taking Taylor hand in his before saying simply, " Taylor is sick."
And then they're all talking at once. What kind of sick? Is she going to be okay? Has she seen a doctor
yet? Does she need to go to the hospital? Is it serious? Taylor almost rolls her eyes, wants to say Of
course it's serious, you idiots. She doesn't, though, because they don't need that right now.
"'I’m dying," she squeaks out pathetically, immediately reaching for Harry and putting her face in his lap,
thinking that if she just stays here until they leave she can avoid the worst of it - their ugly, horrified
expressions, the pity in their eyes. She doesn't want pity. It's embarrassing.
And she can hear everyone talking at once but her brain refuses to turn their words into anything but
rambling, and all at once their hands are on her, stroking her face and running through her hair and
tugging her up to look at them and Andrea is first, wrapping Taylor tight in her arms and Taylor is
reaching around to hug her back, feeling safe and very, very sad suddenly as Austin reaches under
Andrea's arms to pull Taylor close and Scott waits patiently behind them, not wanting to overwhelm her.
She feels warm and happy and loved, so, so loved as Scott pulls her into a hug, rubbing her back and
whispering nonsense into her ear and she's pretty sure Andrea is holding her hand. Fuck, she's not ready
to say goodbye to her family.
Not now, not ever.
One Direction goes on a hiatus after the release of their new album. It's a video, only about a minute
long, and they're all smiling to the point where it's painful, giving thumbs up and promising they'll be
back soon. The status of next year's tour is still unknown.
19

20. The headaches are getting worse.
Taylor smiles through it, pretends not to notice.
She cries that night when her hands are shaking so badly she can't even press the damn elevator button.
She's so used to being able to fix things, patch them up and make them good as new and fuck, she can't
fix this.
Taylor spends all of her time in America gazing at the landscapes of everywhere she goes, memorizing
faces and places because she knows she's probably never going to get to come back.
Despite everything, she's going to miss it.
It's a Sunday afternoon, sleet is falling steadily just outside the windows, and they're still in bed. Taylor
sits cross-legged on the mattress, braiding and unbraiding Harry's hair, fingers slipping through his dark
curls. Olivia is curled up at her side, paws thumping against her thigh. Harry's playing an album by one of
his terrible indie bands over the speaker on the dresser. It's kind of nice.
Letting go of Harry's hair for a moment, Taylor presses her lips into the back of Harry's neck, flushed
with heat even in this chilly November weather.
"What about kids?" she asks after a long time. Harry's posture straightens a little, and Taylor smiles
grimly. It's not like she expected any less.
"Tay," he croaks, turning halfway and Taylor can already see that his eyes are glassy. "Don't."
And normally Taylor would just drop the conversation there, whispering I'm sorry over and over again
into Harry's skin and leaving an apology hickey on the side of his neck before going back to playing with
his hair, but instead she just sits on her shaking hands, bites her lip and tries again. "But, like...you know,
if we were. To have kids, I mean. Names. I know we've discussed them, but I need to know. And, like,
20

21. which one would be head over heels for you and which one I'd corrupt and take out for ice cream after
tea. Please, Harry. I just. It's stupid, but," Taylor pauses, fiddling with the sleeves of her - Harry's -
sweatshirt and attempting to gauge Harry's expression. "I just feel like it's something I want to know,
before. You know." Her voice isn't any higher than a whisper by the last word, but she's still proud.
Harry sits quietly for a long time, almost eerily still as he gazes out the window at the storm beyond,
storm clouds grey and kraken-cruel. Finally, so quietly Taylor's sleepy brain almost doesn't pick it up, he
says, "You would manage to corrupt them, wouldn't you?" The corners of his lips quirk up slightly.
Taylor nods, almost too enthusiastic. "Of course I would. And you'd be the parent who fucking blends up
kale and puts it in brownies, and we'd all compliment you on how good they are because we love you
too much to crush your dreams like that." This earns a small chuckle from Harry, much to Taylor’s
delight. "But then afterwards I'd take them out for sundaes with extra whipped cream and fudge and
they'd come home with ice cream all over their faces but they'd never tell you the truth, because I'm the
cool parent." She grins devilishly, wrapping her arms around Harry and tugging him back, back, back
until they're lying side by side, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip.
"We'd get another cat. Name it Meredith," Harry says, closing his eyes and smiling fondly. "God, the kids
would love you. I mean, they'd love me too, but they'd fucking adore you, Tay."
Taylor can't contain her grin, tucking her face into Harry's shoulder. It takes her a little while to calm
down the giddiness she's got growing in her belly, heart fluttering. "They'd love you, though," she says
finally. "Whenever they were sad or scared they'd go to you first. You'd be the one up the second they
would start crying in the middle of the night, all ready to rock them and sing them back to sleep with
your terrible indie music." The words don't come out like she'd intended them to - it's getting harder to
find the words she's looking for, but she can't let Harry know that.
Harry moves so he's lying on his side, leaning on his elbow and facing Taylor, grinning like mad. "I guess I
would. God," he laughs, tipping his face towards the ceiling fan. "It would be chaos. All the time. We'd
need a bigger house. Like...way bigger."
"Of course," Taylor agrees. "How else would we be able to fit in all that chaos?" She purses her lips,
thinking. "And the holidays. The holidays would be the best. The whole house would be covered in tinsel
21

22. and lights and the kids would make those tacky reindeer with googly eyes and paper clips and we'd buy
Santa hats for all the animals in the house."
"And we'd have a tree, a big one. Even bigger than the one we have now," Harry says, eyes a little glazed
like he's somewhere else. "And even then it'd be a struggle to fit everyone around it."
Taylor nods happily. "Yeah, of course. And of course we'd have to invite the boys. And Gigi and Danielle
and your mum and Gemma and Robin and all of my family, too.” She smiles but feels tears prickling at
her eyes when she pictures all their family and friends crowded around a tree, Harry's arm around her
waist with a plethora of curly-haired, green-blue eyed, giggling children practically hanging off of them
with the family looking on fondly.
Harry notices immediately, and tries to steer the conversation away from that particular topic. "And on
Halloween you'd be the one to go all out. All those bloody expensive animatronics to scare the shit out
of all the trick or treaters."
Taylor feels like her heart is going to burst, and she also feels really tired all of a sudden, eyelids heavy
and she struggles to keep them open. "Mhm," she hums, feeling sleepy and happy as she snuggles
deeper under the down comforters, shuffling to get closer to Harry until their chests are pressed flush
together. Harry runs a hand through Taylor 's hair affectionately and Taylor sighs happily, letting her
eyes fall all the way shut, mumbling, "Keep talking."
Harry shifts so he can tuck Taylor 's head under his chin, hands wrapped protectively around her waist,
and keep talking he does. "And of course you'd be raising them, too, so they wouldn't turn out to be
ridiculous klutzes like me. You'd probably teach them all to dance, wouldn't you, love?" Taylor merely
makes a tiny giggle of agreement, face buried in Harry's chest.
"You'd be an amazing mum. Fuck, Tay. So fucking amazing." Harry sniffles a little before continuing,
voice coming out raw and it makes Taylor want to cry, too.
Harry is still talking but Taylor is already drifting off, visions of curly-haired, green-blued-eyed little
children lingering in her mind and if Harry's ramblings get cut off with a soft, sudden choking sob, Taylor
just squeezes her eyes shut tighter and pretends not to notice.
22

23. Taylor is used to telling Harry everything, pressing the words into Harry's jaw or whimpering them into
his mouth or crying them into his shoulder when she's turned on, embarrassed, sad, or scared. There
are, of course, some things Harry doesn't know, like that on that rare occasions she's awake before
Harry she likes to stare at Harry's face, eyes closed and lips parted and sometimes she cries, too,
because Harry is so wonderful and Taylor doesn't know what force on earth decided she ever deserved
someone so lovely and understanding and patient.
There are more, a few, but they're relatively unimportant things except now she's got a big secret
hovering right over her heart like a butterfly, wings fluttering angrily and it's that she's starting to lose
her words.
She can't... she can't explain it, because it doesn't make sense but sometimes, she'll be in the middle of
a story and somehow she'll just forget as in she cannot physically nor mentally get her tongue to wrap
itself around the next word and it's fucking scary. Like, she'll be telling a story about the Olivia or
something she watched while Harry was away or a stupid joke Niall told her when she'll forget the word
play or watch or even funny and she'll cut herself short, ducking her head as panic creeps up her spine
and then Harry will say something that jogs her memory and she'll be able to finish her story in one
piece.
It's okay. Like the doctors said - bad, but not hopeless. She repeats the words to herself over and over in
her head every night until they blur together and she nearly forgets them altogether.
Staring at Harry's sleeping face, all she can think is please don't let me forget you, too.
23

24. Eventually, Harry notices. Harry notices everything.
"Harry," Taylor says sharply, voice slightly panicked in a way it usually isn't. "Can't find the...the...for the
car."
Harry's brow furrows as he turns to look at her, lips curving downwards into a confused frown. "Huh,
baby?"
Taylor hands shake as she tries to imitate the act of putting keys in the ignition. "Can't find them," she
blurts, feeling more embarrassed than anything else.
"You mean the keys?" Harry asks, voice dripping with concern.
"Keys," Taylor repeats, relief flooding through her so fast she thinks she might pass out. "Yeah. Keys."
The word feels just as familiar as it always has, rolling easily off her tongue and she almost wants to
laugh.
Harry doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to.
The look on his face tells Taylor everything she needs to know.
24

25. Harry makes her a list on his phone, a little list titled Words for Taylor :), all filled with words Taylor has
been forgetting most frequently but the list seems to be growing exponentially with every passing day,
and it's a little hard to keep up.
"Did you remember to feed the...the-" Taylor pauses, brow crinkling in concentration as she licks her lips
and Harry feels a tidal wave of grief come crashing over him as Taylor stands there, eyes narrowing even
further, hands curling into tiny little fists as she struggles to find the word she's looking for.
Wrapping his arms tightly around Taylor 's shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of her head that he
can only hope is comforting, Harry murmurs, "The cat, love?"
Taylor turns into Harry's embrace and buries her face in Harry's collarbones and Harry feels his heart
sink down to his knees when he feels wetness pooling there.
"Hey," he says gently, snaking a hand between Taylor ‘s chest and his and grasping her chin, forcing her
to meet his eyes. Taylor 's eyes are glossy and rimmed red and she looks so pathetic and hopeless it's
got tears prickling at Harry's own eyes. But he won't cry - not now, because this time Taylor needs him
to be the strong one. And he will be.
"Baby," he murmurs, walking slowly backwards until his back thumps against the wall and tugging Taylor
with him, sinking down to the floor so Taylor can rest in the space between his legs. It's only a minute or
two until Taylor 's sniffles stop completely, but the sensation of helplessness remains. "S'okay," he says,
grabbing one of Taylor’s hands and traces the lines of her palm until Taylor has fully calmed down and is
sitting upright, picking at the carpet with her free hand.
"I feel so stupid," Taylor mutters, cheeks flushing as she ducks her head, almost shamefully. "All the
time."
"No." Harry nearly growls it, voice going harsh in a way it normally doesn't with Taylor. Taylor's head
snaps up at the tone in his voice, looking more than a little startled but Harry just doesn't care, because
he doesn't know what to do and he fucking hates feeling helpless like this. He wants to press Taylor into
their mattress and whisper into her skin all the words that are running through his mind but they've got
25

26. places to go and there's just no time. There never is, and his stomach lurches because they're running
out of fucking time and he has so much he needs to say.
Instead, he just pulls Taylor close so their faces are level, noses brushing. Their breathing is almost
humorously noisy in the still, quiet of the flat. "You're not stupid," Harry insists firmly, hands holding
Taylor 's face in place so she can't squirm away. "Never stupid, baby. Don't like hearing you say things
like that." Taylor's gaze lowers and Harry knows she's going to start crying again, so he kisses her before
she can.
It's only a chaste brush of lips, but it's enough.
"You don't get it," Taylor snaps, whirling on him one night when Harry is trying to cuddle her out of
feeling sad for forgetting the word plant. Plant, for Christ's sake. "You don't know what it's like to wake
up and forget the stupidest damn things, like where your toothbrush is or which door it is to our room."
Her lower lip trembles and she bites down on it, hard. She isn't sad, she is angry and she wants Harry so
badly to understand but she can't fucking make him understand and it's not fair to try but it feels like
she's stumbling through an endless expanse of moonless night alone and if that isn't the most
goddamned terrifying thing, she's not sure what is.
"Babe," Harry says gently, eyes glittering and Taylor knows he's going to cry. "I know. I'm sorry. I just,
fuck. Wish there was something I could do. I don't know what to do or how to help and I feel fucking
helpless and I hate it, Tay-"
"I don't want this," Taylor cries suddenly, cutting Harry off and she feels like she's going to collapse,
she's shaking so bad. "I’m going to...forget...everything. You know that, right? That this is minor
compared to how bad it's gonna get? Not gonna be able to sing or even fucking talk, Harry," she
whimpers. "I don't want to forget you."
She barely has time to process her own sobs before Harry is engulfing her, arms wrapping tight tight
tight around her, fingers digging into her back. Taylor has quiet sobs wracking her body and from the
way he's shaking he know Harry's started to cry, too.
26

27. "I'm sorry," Taylor whispers, wiping her eyes on Harry's shirt. "I know you're trying. You're perfect. I'm
sorry I said anything."
She never brings it up again.
Harry walks in on Taylor snuggled under the covers with her knees to his chest, frantically scribbling
onto a piece of notebook paper before pausing, tapping her chin with the pen, and going back to
writing.
"What're you doing?" Harry asks, nudging teasingly at Taylor's legs. Taylor just narrows her eyes and
sticks her tongue out at him, eyes still trained on the paper in front of her.
"Tell me," Harry whines, slithering coyly up next to Taylor and nudging at her hip with his nose.
Taylor sighs, capping her pen and folding up the paper into a tiny square, holding it firmly in her hand.
"A letter,"s he says simply.
Harry waggles his eyebrows playfully. "To who? Your one true love? Are you cheatin' on me, love?" He
reaches out to tickle Taylor 's sides and his heart soars when Taylor gives in and squeals, curling in on
herself.
"Harry, stop,"s he pleads through her laughter, trying in vain to swat Harry's hands away. Harry doesn't
stop though, because Taylor 's laugh is music to her ears and she wants to listen to it all night long. His
hands still, though, when they graze over Taylor’s ribs, the shocking jut of her hipbone. He knows why -
Taylor’s appetite has been nonexistent lately but it's still terrifying, realizing just how tiny she is.
27

28. "So tiny," he murmurs sadly, fingers curling around Taylor arm and even she's surprised when she can fit
her entire arm in the loop between his thumb and forefinger.
"I’ve always been skinny," Taylor retaliates, pulling the covers higher over herself like she's trying to
hide.
"Not like this," Harry whispers, turning his sad eyes to meet Taylor's gaze. Taylor's cheeks are flushed,
like she's almost embarrassed.
"It's a letter for you," she says softly, nose crinkling the way it does when she thinks something is funny,
and Harry stills. "The paper."
"For me?"
Taylor nods, rolling onto her tummy. "For you."
"Do I get to read it?"
"Mmm," Taylor hums, eyes fluttering shut and she peeks out at Harry playfully, grinning. "Not yet. It
isn’t done yet."
"Soon?"
"Yeah," Taylor says, face almost unreadable. "Maybe."
28

29. Taylor finishes her letter to Harry the next morning while Harry is making him eggs, even though her
stomach is in knots and she doubts she'll be able to eat much. She finishes off the letter with a flourish
before capping his pen. There's an air of finality to it as she neatly folds the letter and sticks it into the
empty envelope she's got sitting in front of her, the one she made Harry scour the entire flat for.
She makes sure to make devious eye contact with Harry the entire time she's licking the envelope — she
knows she's over-licked it when it won't even seal properly, so she makes Harry find her another, which
she seals with not nearly as much tongue swiping. She scribbles something quickly on the front of it, too
quick for Harry to get a chance to look, and shoves it deep in the pocket of her sweatshirt.
"Do I get to read it now?" Harry asks from where she's standing by the stove, bare-chested with his
pajama bottoms riding low on his hips as he concentrates on frying the sizzling bacon in the pan in front
of him.
"No," Taylor says simply, suddenly feeling very tired, mostly because of the cancer and all, but also
because he doesn't want to have this conversation.
Harry frowns, turning to narrow his eyes at her, one hand still holding the spatula. "You said it was for
me."
"It is for you. But you don't get to read it now."
"When do I get to read it, then?"
"Like, um. After," Taylor mumbles, fidgeting in her chair as she feels Harry's gaze on her harden. She
hears the sound of the burner being turned off, spatula being put back on the counter, Harry's footsteps
approaching and she squeezes her eyes shut tight because she really, really doesn't want to have this
conversation right now, or maybe ever.
29

30. "After what, Tay?" Harry asks, voice dangerously low.
"You know what." It comes out harsher than she intended. She can't help it. Her head is starting to throb
and she fights the urge to close her eyes again.
"Taylor." Harry's voice is gentle now, watery, like he's going to cry. Or maybe he's already crying; Taylor
can't bring herself to look at his face. They've both been doing a lot of crying lately. Taylor doesn't like it.
"I, just," Taylor sputters, wracking her brain for the words she's looking for. "Wanted to, like, give you
something. Of me. That's...me, in a way, if that makes sense. So you can have it...when I'm, um. When
I'm not me anymore, I guess." She brings a hand up to rub at her eye and it comes away wet. She
doesn't know when she started crying but all she knows now is thats he is crying and she's pretty sure
Harry is, too, and she can't stop.
"Oh, Tay," he whispers, and he's aiming for her mouth but ends up kissing his cheekbone instead. Close
enough. "Okay," he says finally, looking resigned. "I'll wait to read it, then. Until...after." The look on his
face makes Taylor’s heart ache. The look of understand and resignation and sadness because she
understands now and that's all Taylor has ever wanted from him but seeing it now just makes her want
to disappear.
Soon, she thinks. Soon.
Turns out that her soon is coming sooner than expected when she's in the shower one morning, washing
her hair with Harry's apple-scented shampoo and the world in front of her blurs, a jolt of pain hitting her
so badly she doubles over, clutching at her stomach and she barely has time to yell for Harry before her
entire lower half goes numb and the world in front of her spins into blackness.
30

31. Harry finds her on her side in the shower in a pool of blood from the gash on her head, eyes slightly
open, skin flushed and she's shaking violently, lips parted like she's going to say something but she's not,
just releasing this little breathy gasps and Harry is at her side at once, begging, "Taylor, baby, c'mon, stay
with me. Come back to me, sweetheart." He continues chanting even as he's frantically trying to explain
to the 911 operator what's happened.
"My girlfriend passed out in the shower and she's bleeding and shaking and fuck, there's blood
everywhere, please send somebody now!" He runs his shaking fingers through Taylor's damp hair. When
he pulls his hand away it's covered in Taylor’s blood and he nearly loses it right there but he can't, not
now. Not yet.
" Taylor," he repeats desperately, pressing his fingers to Taylor's pulse point on her neck and his mouth
to Taylor's, breathing, trying to give her air, trying to help her breathe, for Christ's sake.
By the time the paramedics show up, though, Taylor’s shaking has ceased and she's stopped responding
altogether.
Harry has to pull over on his way to the hospital, trailing after the ambulance - he stumbles out onto the
damp grass on the side of the road and empties a mouthful of stomach bile onto the soil.
A seizure, the doctors tell him. Bad, but common with glioblastoma patients. Harry wants to be sick
again.
31

32. When Taylor wakes up, she is screaming in pain, clutching at her head with shaking fingers and grabbing
the nurse's hand and begging, "Please make it stop, please make it stop, just make it stop."
So they cut into her scalp, taking Taylor's desperate cries as permission. They're able to remove some of
the tumor, but not enough. Not nearly enough. It's bad, they say, shaking their heads and gazing sadly at
Harry when he breaks down in the waiting room, head in his hands. Really fucking bad.
He only cries harder when he gets to see Taylor, looking so fragile and tired in her hospital bed, patch of
hair missing and angry stitches where they sliced into her head, poked around in her brain. He has to be
escorted out until he can compose himself. When he finally does, Taylor won't talk, but Harry doesn't
need her to. He just sits in the chair by her bed, tracing Taylor’s jawline with his fingers.
Andrea and the whole crew are there by the next morning, crowding around Taylor and parents are
crying, crying, crying and Scott crawls onto the bed next to them Taylor just quietly strokes his hand,
murmuring, "It's okay. I'm okay. Don't worry about me. I'm okay." Andrea has to leave the room and
Harry follows her, enveloping her in a tight hug because he gets it.
"I know," he whispers, Andrea’s face pressed into his shoulder, staining his coat with mascara tears, "I'm
scared, too."
The boys come visit, too, piling into a couple of chairs near Taylor's bed and talking to her excitedly,
quickly, and it breaks Harry's heart when Taylor merely looks up at them, blinking and lost and so, so
confused. Harry tries to repeat what the doctors told him to them, that they need to slow it down, that
Taylor’s brain isn't working at fully capacity right now and it's going to start taking her a little while to
understand people so they need to just slow it down so as to not overwhelm her.
They nod grimly, and the way they talk to her after that is so heartbreakingly gentle that Harry has to
leave the room.
Taylor gets to come home five days later. A few pictures of her leaving the hospital, Harry's orange
beanie on her head covering the worst of her scars, make it into the tabloids, but it's passed off as a
32

33. minor incident, a stomach bug. It's clear from the glazed look in Taylor's pale blue eyes and her hollowed
cheeks that this isn't the case, but most people don't question it. An influx of Get well soon! :) tweets are
posted, all tagging @TaylorSwift13, and it makes Harry's skin crawl.
Somehow, when Taylor walks through the door, guided by Harry's warm hand on the small of her back,
and whimpers “Just wanna go back to bed, Haz,” Harry knows things will never be quite the same again.
The clock ticks on the wall. He shivers.
Harry spends a lot of time doing research, and each search turns up more horrors about Taylor’s
worsening condition - more seizures, sleeping 18 hours a day, hallucinating, unable to eat or drink or
even swallow, forgetting things that happened just hours ago. He can't believe this is happening, and it's
happening to Taylor, of all people - the sun of his existence, the moon to his stars, light of his life, the
love of his life, his favorite girl in the world.
When one night Taylor can't stop throwing up and she's shaking so bad Harry worries she's going to
have another seizure, Taylor buries her tear-stained face in Harry's chest and cries, "I just want it to
stop, just want it to be over now."
"I know, baby, I know you do, I'm sorry," Harry babbles, hands stroking Taylor’s hair as he mentally
prepares for the next vomiting episode.
It only occurs to Harry later, after he's cleaned and sanitized the entire bathroom, when they're curled
up in bed as the sun begins to rise, turning the whole world purple, that maybe Taylor just want it to be
over now means something different than what he'd originally interpreted it as, and he clutches the
fragile girl closer.
He won't let her go. Not without a fight.
33

34. "Stay," Harry whispers desperately, pressing his lips to Taylor’s temple like he can somehow ease the
pain that's blooming there, but he can't make the pain stop and no matter how hard he tries he can't
make Taylor stay.
"Wish I could," Taylor whispers back, pressing herself closer to Harry, leaning into his touch.
Harry wonders if he holds Taylor close enough, he can keep her forever. He promised Taylor a long time
ago that he'd always protect her. Always, except he always thought that would be protection from
something physically, tangible, except now this thing killing Taylor is a part of her and all Harry can
fucking do is sit back and watch as the love of his life gets worse and worse.
He's so scared, because it's the first time he's made a promise to Taylor that he's realized he can't keep.
Taylor is quiet lately. Not because she's shy or anything — it just takes her a little longer to process
words and it's even more draining for her to speak in complete sentences all the time. She still talks,
sure, but a majority of her communication most days is via smiles and nods and head shakes. She's been
using their thumbs-up signal recently, too.
Harry doesn't mind. Sure, it's weird not having Taylor's sweet little voice filling up the halls, always an
uncontrollable ball of energy, but. She's still soft and cuddly and cheeky and here, and that's all that
matters.
34

35. He starts off every morning by asking Taylor, "What color are you today, babe?"
It's a system they've come up with, like traffic lights, because three colors are easier for Taylor to keep
track of than individual emotions.
Green is a good day, when Taylor is alert and in the mood for company and cartoons and maybe even
pancakes. Yellow means okay. Yellow means, "I'm okay, but I might not be later," or vice versa. On
yellow days, Taylor is a little slower; it takes her a little longer to speak, a little longer to process Harry's
words. Yellow means no company and quiet music and cuddles and lots of tea. Sometimes, on yellow
days, Harry reads to her, keeping his voice low and even, fingers tangled with Taylor’s.
Red is a bad day — red is when the pain in Taylor’s head is almost unbearable, it's radio silence and
Taylor taking as long as ten minutes to answer a single question, or sometimes not at all. Red is Harry
spooning ice chips into Taylor’s mouth because she can't handle anything else. Red is Taylor clutching
onto Harry like he's a lifeline, like he's the only thing keeping Taylor here.
Today is a red day. Harry can tell right off the bat, because it takes nearly twenty minutes to get Taylor
awake and somewhat responsive, and even then her eyes are fluttering like she's physically incapable of
keeping them open and it makes Harry's heart aches, how terribly weak she looks.
By early evening, though, after the sky has shifted from blue to pink to purple, Taylor's red has dimmed
to yellow. Harry can tell; Taylor is much more alert, she has the energy to walk to the toilet by herself
(Harry escorts her anyway, despite Taylor's weak protests that she's not a child, Harry.) She's cuddlier,
too, snuggling up closer to Harry when he reaches out to run a hand through Taylor’s hair.
Taylor lays on her side, eyes trained on Harry's. Harry gazes back, unflinching — he knows from the look
in Taylor's eyes that she's truly here, really looking at Harry. Just observing, like she's trying to
remember every detail of Harry's face. Harry doesn't mind, though; after all, he's doing the same.
Feeling a sudden surge of affection, Harry smiles gently, placing a hand on Taylor's forearm to make sure
Taylor is present, grounded, and holds out her other hand in a tiny wave, waggling her fingers. Hi, I love
you. Warmth spills into his gut when Taylor nods — she saw, she's here, she's here with me, Harry's
35

36. relieved mind chants over and over again — and gives Taylor gives a little thumbs up, corners of hher
mouth quirking up and she doesn't have to speak for Harry to know what it means.
I know. I love you, too.
Harry wakes up unreasonably early the next morning, and at first he's completely ready to dive back
under the covers and go back to sleep until he realizes today is Taylor's birthday and his heart leaps, only
to sink back when his eyes fall on the sleeping girl next to him, looking exhausted even in sleep, purpled
half moons under her closed eyes and cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass.
He runs a hand experimentally down Taylor’s warm side, fingers lingering a touch too long on her ribs,
so prominent even through her shirt that Harry has to fight to swallow back his panic.
"Tay," he murmurs, sinking down to be level with Taylor and nosing at her cheek, running gentle hands
down her sides and back. "It's your birthday, baby. C'mon, wake up."
It takes nearly five minutes and quite a bit of coaxing but Louis' eyelashes finally flutter as he peeks out
at Harry, nose crinkling a little and Harry bites back a grin, reaching out to cup his jaw. "There you are,"
he practically coos, their noses brushing as Taylor's fluttering lashes slow as she comes to. "There's my
girl. It's your birthday, babe."
"Birthday," Taylor repeats carefully.
"That's right," Harry says with a nod, stroking Taylor’s cheekbone with his fingers. "Happy birthday,
darling." His eyes linger on Taylor's face as it dawns on him that this is going to be her last birthday and
he can feel the lump forming in his throat, but that thought makes him sad and he doesn't want to be
36

37. sad on her birthday, so he pushes the thought away and turns his attention to the sweet little thing in
front of him, all curled up in fleece blankets, looking like a sleepy little child, hair sticking out in all
directions. "What color are you today?"
Taylor brushes her chapped lips together, contemplating this. "Green," she says finally, but with an
upward inflection like she's just looking for whatever is going to make Harry happy.
"Are you sure, babe?" Harry asks, brow furrowing in concern.
"I’m sure," Taylor says simply, wrinkling her nose and narrowing her eyes as if to say, How dare you
doubt me.
Harry's mind drifts back to Taylor’s last birthday, where she'd woken up to a very squirmy and happy
Taylor, who had, upon learning Harry was awake, whispered excitedly in his ear, "Guess whose birthday
it is? Mine! Guess who said they'd make me chocolate chip pancakes? You did!" and spent a good ten
minutes trying to drag a very sleepy Harry out of bed. They'd wound up on the floor, Harry pressing
happy birthday kisses to Taylor's mouth, the column of her throat and between her breasts before
eating her out in the wintry sunshine pouring in through the window.
Harry knows Taylor is a little too fragile at the moment for that kind of roughhousing, but it doesn't keep
him from pressing soft kisses to Taylor’s mouth, both of her cheeks, the tip of her nose, whispering,
"Love you, love you, love you," over and over again.
"Love you, too," Taylor answers, voice bright and clear and, yeah. It's a green day.
37

38. They spend Taylor's birthday tangled up on the couch watching Christmas specials, all of Taylor’s
favorites. Harry bakes gingerbread cookies. Taylor won't eat any, she can't, but she likes the smell and
she likes watching Harry bake, so.
"Got you a present." Harry tells her later that night, pulling off his shirt and closing his fingers around the
object in his hand.
Taylor's mouth pops open a little, cheeks turning bright red and Harry doubles over with laughter. "Oh,
sweetheart," he chuckles, fingers smoothing Taylor’s fringe out of the way. "Not like that. Here, look,"
he explains, turning around and pointing to the inking on the back of his neck.
Taylor frowns, looking confused at the sloping black lines. It's okay, though - Harry expected her to be
confused.
"This," Harry says, clearing his throat and taking Taylor’s hand to press it to the tattoo, the one that still
stings a little, being so new, "is your heartbeat."
Taylor's frown gradually dissipates and she blinks at Harry, staring for a long time and her eyes are
getting really, really glassy and oh, she's going to cry and Harry leans down to peck her lips and nose at
her jaw, murmuring, "Baby, don't cry. Don't be sad."
"'I’m not sad," Taylor says at once, voice sharp. "I’m happy."
And, fuck. Now Harry's crying, too. He can't keep the stupid, happy grin off his face as he holds out the
silver chain in the palm of his hand. Taylor peers at it curiously, wiping at her eyes furiously with the
back of his hand.
Hanging from the silver chain is a tiny silver paper airplane and, next to that, a circle with another set of
curving lines, sloping like mountains. "And this," Harry says, gently slipping the chain over Taylor’s head,
"is my heartbeat."
38

39. "Oh," Taylor says softly, fingers reaching to touch the charms, now lying snugly against her chest.
"Do you like it?" Harry asks hopefully, and he barely has time to register what's happening before Taylor
is launching herself at him, and they're a tangle of limbs and tears and Taylor is crying, "Yes, yes, love it,
love you, thank you thank you thank you."
Harry's heart swells. With Taylor in his arms, he feels like he can do anything.
They fuck, because Taylor is feeling better than she has in a very long time and she's begging for it,
grinding down on Harry's crotch and tugging at his shirt, pressing her face into Harry's chest and
whimpering desperately. The charms hanging from her neck, tickling her breasts, make a soft jingling
sound, like sleigh bells.
So, Harry gives in after making Taylor promise to please tell him to stop if she gets too tired.
"So pretty," Harry murmurs, hands running through the hair at the base of Taylor’s scalp, soft and thin
and he feels like he's going to go insane if he can't touch Taylor one more time. "You're so pretty, baby.
Always so pretty for me. Love you so much."
Harry knows he's saying too much, too fast for Taylor to completely understand, but Taylor doesn't
seem to mind. She just arches up into Harry's thrusts, whimpering, "Yes, yes, more. Please."
Harry feels an ache deep in his heart, because here, propped up above Taylor who's squirming and
writhing beneath him, gasping sharply when Harry bites at her lip and tilting her head back to expose
her throat to Harry like she's just begging for mark her up, it feels like everything might be okay. Or, at
the very least, she can pretend.
39

40. Taylor has been so tired lately, but tonight she's got enough strength to wrap her arms around Harry's
neck, holding herself up while Harry thrusts into her a little too roughly, nipping at her ear with her
fingers alternating between circling her clit and tugging her nipples. It's all over so fast Harry wants to
cry, collapsing back on the couch with Taylor in his arms, all limp and warm and pliant.
"Happy birthday, baby," Harry mumbles, voice thick with exhaustion and he's too happy to feel anything
else right now. "Love you. Love you so much." Taylor just hums, nuzzling at Harry's chest with her nose
and closing her eyes.
They fall asleep on the couch, basking in the warm glow of Christmas tree lights and the sound of Frank
Sinatra singing have yourself a merry little Christmas.
Christmas is a red day. Harry's heart is in his throat the entire fifteen minutes it takes to get Taylor to
respond to him, thinking about how he's so used to Taylor crawling all over him and squealing, "It's
Christmas, it's Christmas, Harry, come on, get up!"
Taylor is so weak, is the thing, and Harry wonders if their endeavors the previous night tired her out
even more. Probably. His stomach is in knots the entire time, as he makes the Facetime call to Andrea
and the Scott, who unfortunately cannot make it due to the dreadful snow pileup but promise they'll be
by to visit before New Year's. Please hurry, Harry thinks but doesn't say anything. Taylor can barely say
anything, either
They spend their Christmas day lying on the couch, watching more Christmas specials. Taylor sleeps
through most of them. Harry sings Christmas tunes to her all afternoon, but he knows most of them are
lost on Taylor, who drifts in and out of consciousness every half hour or so.
40

41. Harry is a little disappointed - well, he's a lot disappointed, actually, but he doesn't want to admit it to
himself because frankly, it sounds a bit selfish.
He just wished their last Christmas together would be happier, is all.
Last year, they spent New Year's Eve drunk off their asses, hiding in the dark corners, anywhere out of
sight to cop a quick feel and when it struck midnight they had crashed their lips together and Taylor had
mumbled, "To another lovely year with my favorite boy."
"The fourth New Year's we've spent together," Harry had laughed, pressing a sloppy, drunk kiss to
Taylor’s chin. "The fourth of many, many more to come."
This year, they spend it in their flat in almost complete silence. The other boys are here, too, and
Danielle, because they can't just not invite her. For Christ's sake, she's got Liam absolutely whipped.
They're all squished together on the couch, Taylor resting across all of their laps and it's nice, having
them all here for this.
They're all touching him in some way - Liam's got his arms crossed over Taylor’s ankles, Niall is fiddling
with the hem of her sweater and tracing little patterns onto her hipbone that make the her fragile body
jolt with giggles and swat his hand away. And Taylor’s head is in Harry's lap, with Harry carding his hand
gently through her hair, grinning sheepishly whenever Taylor gets tired and presses her face into Harry's
stomach, just to the left of his butterfly tattoo.
When the clock strikes midnight they all cheer, Liam pulling Danielle in for a kiss and Niall trying to hug
everyone at once. Taylor sits up slowly, blinking at Harry, confused.
41

42. "It's New Year's, baby," Harry whispers, grinning and pressing their foreheads together. "Happy New
Year, Tay. I lo-"
But Louis' lips cut him off, hot and insistent, before he can finish.
Besides Harry, Niall is Taylor's favorite.
She loves Zayn and Liam, she does, but it feels like they're always too wound up, even when they're
gentle, and on anything that isn't a Very Good Day it's hard for Taylor to deal with.
Niall, though, she loves, and he's the only non-family member besides Harry she can see on yellow days
(red days are for Harry and Harry only, and sometimes not even then - mostly she just shuts down and
when she's awake she stares at the wall like Harry isn't even in the room.)
Niall is gentle and sweet, always greeting Taylor with a, "Hey, babes." There's a lot of cuddling involved
but Niall tells her stories, too, murmuring remember when... and not getting frustrated when Taylor
doesn't, which is often. Harry can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy, because he's read about
glioblastoma patients pushing close friends and family away if they feel their business with them is
done, and Harry is terrified that one day Taylor is going to decide she's just done with Harry.
The doctors assure him that it's very unlikely - Harry is her primary caregiver, her lover, her best friend.
She will, most likely, continue to identify Harry until the very end.
But Niall doesn't treat Taylor like she's dying, and hard as he tries Harry just can't do that.
42

43. Two weeks, three days and four hours into the New Year, Taylor has another seizure. It's worse, because
Harry witnesses the whole thing, pressing desperate kisses to Taylor’s forehead as he begs her, "Just
keep breathing, c'mon, darling, I've got you, stay with me a little longer," after it's over and Taylor is
crying and delirious.
Up until now, Harry's always seen a little spark of hope in Taylor’s eye, but when Taylor reaches out to
him from her hospital bed, tucking her face into Harry's arm and begs, "Please just take me home.
Please, Harry, just wanna go home," Harry can almost see the light in her eyes go out, burning and
flickering like a candle before collapsing into ash and smoke.
He doesn't leave Taylor alone anymore after that. Mostly he's with her, but if he's not it has to be
someone he trusts. One of the other boys, if it's a shorter period of time. Or Andrea. Nobody else,
though, and even with the aforementioned people Harry feels waves of panic washing over him the
entire time he's out, from the second he walks out the door to the second he gets to see Taylor's face
again.
Taylor gets sad when he leaves. Harry does too, but he has arrangements to make, hospital bills to pay,
doctors to question, so he picks up the charms hanging from the silver chain around Taylor’s neck and
kisses them.
"Now my love will be with you even when I'm not, and it'll keep you warm until I'm back," he promises.
Taylor nods, believing every word.
43

44. And when Harry is out and worried, mind always chanting Taylor, Taylor, Taylor. Is Taylor okay is she
awake or asleep is she eating is she happy does she miss me, he presses his fingers to Taylor's heartbeat
on his neck.
It's not a perfect solution, but it helps.
"How is she?" is the first thing out of Harry's mouth after he's said hello to Niall, making a beeline for the
chair where Taylor is curled up like a cat, presumably asleep and crouching down in front of her.
"She's been out of it for a little over an hour," Niall says sadly, fingers brushing along Taylor’s arm doing
nothing to rouse her.. "Good until then, though. We watched Greys Anatomy and cuddled a bit. I told
her I wouldn't tell you about the kissing if she didn't." Niall grins cheekily, holding up his hands
defensively, as if to say, just kidding, please don't kill me. "She kept talking about you before, though.
Think she wanted you."
"'Course she wants me," Harry says, cupping Taylor's cheeks. "I'm her favorite. Right, sweetheart?"
Taylor makes a soft, pathetic whining noise as she peeks out at Harry through her lashes, nuzzling into
Harry's hand like a kitten.
"Hey, darling," Harry greets her, kneeling down because it's easier for Taylor to concentrate if Harry is
level with her. Taylor’s eyes are glassy, and she wipes absently at her nose with the sleeve of her
jumper.
44

45. "Do I get a goodbye hug?" Niall teases as he gets up to go, looking fairly flustered when Taylor laughs
and tugs him down and wraps her arms around him, planting a friendly kiss on his cheek. "Bye, Tay." He
gives Harry a hug on the way out, giving him the standard, Call me if you need anything.
When Harry returns to where Taylor is sitting, Taylor looks like she's about to cry, lower lip trembling
and Harry wonders absently if she was feeling like this the entire time he was gone, just holding it in.
"Harry," Taylor whispers, sounding raspy and sad and Harry makes a mental note not to leave the room
until Taylor is feeling okay again.
"Yeah, babe. I'm here." Harry frowns, examining Taylor's eyes carefully to make sure she's actually here.
"I think you're yellow right now. Is that right?"
Taylor nods once. "Sad," she whimpers before burying her face in Harry's arm, and Harry scoops her up,
pulling the blankets off the chair before he sits down with Taylor in his lap, arranging the blankets
around her neatly.
"Why are you sad?" Harry asks, fully prepared to get nothing in response. Taylor is like that lately;
unable to fathom how, why, even what.
So he's more than a little surprised when Taylor blinks at him and mumbles, "Missed you." She's
fidgeting with the necklace Harry got her for her birthday, holding it so tight like she's scared it's going to
disappear.
Harry's heart is truly in his throat now. "Oh, baby," he croons, pressing a kiss to Taylor's forehead. He
can't stop kissing her nowadays, can't stop touching her, can't stop assuring Taylor that he loves, loves,
loves her to the moon and back. "Missed you, too. Missed you more, in fact. Way more."
Taylor bites her lip and shakes her head. "Not possible."
45

46. It's the most responsive she's been in a few days, and Harry wants to take full advantage of it. "Are you
hungry?"
Taylor shakes her head. Harry sighs. Good things never did come easy.
"Okay, let's try this again. If I make soup, will you try to eat some?"
Taylor nods this time, pursing her lips and gazing absently at the wall. Eating is hard, lately - she's never
ever hungry and always so, so tired and the doctors have told Harry this is normal as time goes on,
which Harry knows is code for as we get closer to the end but it's still terrifying, watching Taylor look like
she's going to waste away into nothingness.
Taylor manages several spoonfuls of soup that night, snuggled up with Harry in bed while they watch
Anchorman. Taylor falls asleep halfway through, breathing soft and even but Harry keeps his ear pressed
to her chest the entire night long, eventually drifting off to the even lull of Taylor’s heart, the same one
that's inked into the back of his neck. It's a good night.
It's one of the last good nights he'll have.
Harry likes sing to her, likes to tell Taylor stories. Taylor likes being read to, but she likes it more when
Harry just talks, because his voice is always quiet and he never speaks too fast for Taylor to understand.
Mostly, though, Taylor just likes to listen, and it's weird because Taylor usually the one talking, filling the
room with her presence but things are different now and Harry gets that and it's good. It's okay.
46

47. He really doesn't want Taylor to see him cry.
Harry knows it's coming. It's been coming for a long time and frankly, he's gotten more time with Taylor
than he ever thought he'd get since the day she was diagnosed, and he should be grateful but instead
he's just angry, angry because he doesn't want to lose Taylor and angry because Taylor can't remember
a damn thing anymore and one of these days she's going to wake up and forgot Harry's name and that's
going to be it, Harry thinks. That's going to be the last straw, and he can't deal with Taylor dying not
knowing who he is, not remembering every detail, every night they've spent tangled up together, every
morning making heart eyes at each other over breakfast, every show with adrenaline pumping through
their veins and love in their hearts, and.
Fuck. Harry can't do this. Fuck.
Taylor is alive on Harry's birthday. Harry can't believe it, and he sort of feels like the luckiest person on
the planet.
"I didn't...didn't get you anything," Taylor says sadly, clutching the paper airplane and heartbeat charms
tightly to her chest. Her eyes are apologetic and almost embarrassed.
47

48. Harry almost crushes her with his hug, whispering, "You're here. You're here with me, baby. That's the
best present I could've ever asked for."
And it is.
Taylor’s eyelashes flutter. She thought she was tired, and she was. But this time, sleep doesn't take her
immediately. It's strange.
Harry's voice catches her off guard - it sounds harsh and broken and tired. She's not used to hearing
Harry like that. Peeking out through her lashes he spots Harry sitting in the corner of the room, face
illuminated in the dim light of the desk lamp, phone pressed to his ear, head down.
"Fuck, I don't know. She's getting really bad. Like, worse than usual. She's having a lot of trouble
understanding the things I'm saying and she won't eat or drink anything. Fuck, it could be tonight. It's
like she's just barely hanging in there." A pregnant pause, then, "Fuck, no. I'm not ready. I'm really not.
I'm scared to sleep, because I don't want to...miss it. I'm scared that I'm gonna doze off and when I wake
up she's going to be gone. I don't want her to be...like, alone. When it happens, you know? Just want her
to be okay."
It's certainly not a conversation he would be having if he knew Taylor was awake, and somehow that
just makes it even worse.
She doesn't want to die, except that she does.
But the thought makes her sad, so she just rolls over and squeezes her leaking eyes shut tight tight tight,
brain imploding and exploding over and over again and she just wants it to be over.
48

49. She hopes Harry can sleep tonight.
They're on the couch, watching Big Brother reruns as hour-old, half empty cups of tea sit on the coffee
table in front of them, cold and abandoned. Taylor is curled in Harry's lap, head pillowed by Harry's
chest and the big blue fleece blanket she's cocooned in. Neither of them are watching the tv, not really -
Taylor is drifting in and out periodically, long eyelashes fluttering against the blanket. She's so tired.
Harry is watching her more than anything else, one of Taylor's tiny hands in his larger ones, smoothing
along her skin and cupping it in hopes of providing some kind of warmth.
"Harry," she mumbles, or at least she does in his head. Harry's eyes are still trained on the window, and
it's then that Taylor knows that the words never actually left her mouth. Frustrated, she tugs gently on
Harry's shirt, and that definitely works because all at once Harry's full attention is on her, fingers
pressing against her forehead, smoothing her hair back, cupping her jaw.
"Hey, babe," he says, enunciating each word so as to make it easier for Taylor to understand. She widens
her eyes a little and tilts her head, as if to ask, what's up?
Taylor closes her eyes again, presses her lips together, searching the mess inside her head for the words.
It doesn't take as long as it normally does. A final stroke of luck, perhaps. "Just..." she starts, fingers
curling tighter around the fabric of Harry's shirt, head throbbing as she struggles to speak. "Love you."
The words are slurred together and very, very quiet, but she can tell from the look on Harry's face that
he understands. Weakly, she tips his head up towards Harry and Harry does the rest, pressing his
trembling hands to Taylor’s clammy cheeks and whispering words to her that he doesn't understand,
noses brushing and she blinks wearily, trying to muster up a smile of sorts but Harry just chokes out a
sob and slots their mouths together.
It feels like home.
49

50. The relief she feels, though, after she finally spits out the words is the nicest thing she's felt in months,
and she lets her eyes slip shut again with Harry's lips still on hers. This is it, this is it, this is it, her mind
chants. It's so comforting she almost doesn't feel Harry go rigid beneath her. Almost. Harry is talking,
now, but there are too many words, too quick and frantic and Taylor is too tired to even try to figure out
what they mean. It feels like she's falling down the rabbit hole, the world around her growing darker and
darker and it's too exhausting to try to pull herself out even with Harry's help. She just wants to sleep.
Home, she thinks, pressing her face into Harry's chest and breathing in deep. Home.
It doesn't end with a bang like Harry has been preparing for. It's a whimper and a soft, breathy sigh,
Taylor’s frail chest rising once, twice, three times more and then everything is still, like the earth has
stop turning on its axis.
Somehow, knowing it's coming doesn't make it any less painful. If anything, it makes it worse - like every
place Taylor has ever touched him is burning, flames licking hungrily at his blistering skin.
It takes him a long, long time to move, and even longer to get himself untangled from Taylor because
he's trying to be careful. So, so careful - don't wake Taylor, don't wake Taylor he thinks. His fingers shake
as he dials the number - he's got it memorized at this point, he's been ready for weeks - and his voice
cracks a little as he explains the situation to the operator.
Taylor looks okay, at least - less tired, mouth slack. She looks like a kid again. Harry hopes she's not
hurting anymore.
When the paramedics finally come, Harry is running his shaking fingers through Taylor’s hair, just the
way she likes - liked, he reminds himself, feeling another shard of his sanity crumble to the carpet - and
it almost feels like normal. Almost.
50

51. After they take her away, Harry sits on the edge of the couch, shaking hard and clutching at his knees as
it sinks all the way into his very core that he's never going to see Taylor ever again and he's put his fist
through the drywall before his reason can catch up.
It's not until two weeks later when he wakes up cold and alone in bed that he remembers the note. The
fucking letter.
He nearly dies tripping over his own feet on his way to the dresser, yanking out the envelope and
clutching it to his chest desperately, head tilted towards the ceiling and for the first time since Taylor
died he feels something. Not a good something, but something nonetheless.
His hands are shaking so badly. He's scared to even look at it, scared because this is the last piece of
Taylor he has. That's untrue, really, because he has all Taylor’s clothes and pictures and her phone and
her everything, but somehow this feels like it, the final nail in the coffin.
Harry's dry expression makes way for a choking sob as his eyes land on the front of the envelope - two
crudely drawn stick figure people, holding hands with a lopsided heart in between them, ‘HAYLOR
FOREVER!!!!!!!!’ scribbled in its center. Next to it is what appears to be the two said stick figures
engaging in what Harry can only assume is sex and he can't decide whether to laugh or cry harder.
Maybe both.
Before he can remove the contents of the envelope, the doorbell rings.
It takes him a long time to make his way to the door, but when he finally is able to open it after flipping
all the locks with shaking fingers, Harry is surprised to find Zayn, Niall and Liam standing there, all with
their left sleeves rolled up, grinning like mad and Harry wants to punch them for looking genuinely
51

52. happy. He can barely remember what a smile feels like on his mouth, what it's like to not have a weight
hanging heavy on his heart every second, like if he tries to just breathe for a second it's going to crush
him.
What's so great? he wants to ask, doesn't. When they hold out their arms for him, he gets his answer.
Tattooed on each of their wrists is a tiny ‘H’ for Haylor.
It takes Harry a full ten minutes with his face buried in Liam's neck to stop crying and invite them inside.
They all sit awkwardly in the sitting room, like they're not quite sure how to function without Taylor.
Harry understands all too well.
"D'you want us to stay?" Zayn asks in a low, level voice, like he's trying not to scare off a baby deer.
"Yeah," he says quietly, head still wrapping itself around the fact that Taylor's note is in his pocket and
he hasn't read it yet. "Gotta take a piss first, though."
When he's finally in the bathroom he slams the door shut and presses his back against it, heart going a
million miles a minute and he's scared that any second now it's going to just stop.
With shaking fingers, he pulls it from his pocket and slips it from the envelope, unfolding it and
smoothing it against his leg. Something small and square slips out - Harry leans down to grab it, lips
quirking up the tiniest bit at the picture. It's one he's never seen before, probably something recent
from Taylor’s phone. In it, they're in bed, Harry's chin resting on Taylor’s chest, lips pressed fondly to her
collarbone and Taylor is holding the camera out and grinning, all short blonde hair and pale skin and
bright blue eyes and Harry knows at once it's how Taylor would want to be remembered.
52

53. Harry,
I'm writing this while you're downstairs washing the dishes and I'm curled up in bed. Our bed. I don't like
the thought of leaving it to just be yours - I've always been a greedy bitch, haven't I?
I don't know if you're reading this while I'm still here or if I'm already gone, but I kinda hope it's the latter
because the other is just too embarrassing.
I'm really scared, Harry. And I know you're scared too but I am really, really fucking scared, and the
intention of this letter wasn't to make you feel bad or anything but it just dawned on me that I'm writing
a letter for you to have after I die, which is going to be soon, I think. And that's scary. But the scariest
part isn't dying, exactly. It's leaving you behind. I don't wanna leave you behind to fend for yourself.
I have to say this now, though, because it's too hard to talk to you about in person. Try to move on? Like,
I'm not asking you to go out and get laid the second they've lowered my casket into the ground, but. Just
don't stay in bed for weeks on end. Or do, if that's going to help. Just make sure to eat and shower and
feed Olivia. Don't do anything stupid. Keep in contact with the boys. They love you, you know.
Before I forget - go give Olivia a cuddle for me, because I love her, too.
You said I was brave, but you're the bravest person I know. I love you, I love you, I love you. I've loved you
since the day I met you and I will love you until I die and maybe even after, if there is an after, you know,
besides rotting in the ground with maggots crawling out of my eye sockets. Is that too much? Sorry, got
a little carried away.
It's just, I can't stop thinking about dying. I'm not scared, except that I am, but I'm curious, because
what's after that? Peter Pan was always going off about how dying must be the biggest adventure of all,
but I'm not so sure. What if there isn't an after? What then?
53

54. You probably expected this to be some horribly sentimental letter with me expressing my undying love
for you, which it will be, but not yet. Oh, and now you just walked in on me writing this. Nice. I'll have to
continue again later.
Okay. So it's morning now and I'm going to finish this dumb thing. You're not wearing a shirt and I can
see all your dumb tattoos. Here's a secret: I'll tease you for it till my dying day, but the butterfly tattoo is
one of my favorites. You look hot, by the way. You're making breakfast. Egg on toast. My favorite. I hope
you don't get offended if I don't eat much of it - it's nothing against your cooking, love, I promise. Dying
just makes doing other basic things kind of hard. I don't want to die. At least, I think I don't.
I'm gonna miss you so much, though, and you know what? Fuck it, even if there is no after, I'm going to
miss you. I'm going to miss you forever and ever and ever and now I'm really kind of sad, because I don't
want you to throw your life away after I'm gone.
I love you. I love you. I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I LOVE YOU I want to
wrap you in a blanket made out of my love. Here, I made you this sweater. It's made out of my tears.
Haha! I hope you get the reference. If you don't, my love for you just decreased a little bit. Don't worry. I
still love you so much it feels like I'm going to explode with it sometimes. Can't handle how much I love
you, didn't know I could love someone this much.
Thank you. Thank you for changing my life, for teaching me how to love myself and being there for me
when I was at my best and my worst. Thank you for putting up with me, thank you for moving in with
me, thank you for making me egg on toast every morning, thank you for coming into my life. Thank you
for being my home away from home since day one. Thank you for being someone I can trust, someone I
can love unconditionally, and someone who loves me unconditionally in return. Because of you, I believe
in soulmates. I might guide you, but you keep me anchored. God. We really are a couple of saps, aren't
we?
I hope you sell a million more albums and then some, I hope you go on tour again because I know how
much you all love performing, and I hope it reminds you of me. In a good way. Everything reminds me of
you.
If you do fall in love again, as many people do, just do me one favor. Don't let it be Nick. That's literally
all I'm asking.
54

55. Also, don't cut your hair. Ever. Or do, if that makes you happy. Just want you to be happy. Want you to
smile, Harry. You're a good person, a really good one. You can do a lot of good things for some good
people, Harry. You can move mountains, still the seas, change lives. I hope you take advantage of that.
Maybe I'll see you again, in another life or something, where I'm the waves and you're the shoreline.
There's some sappy quote about that, but I can't quite remember it. Look it up, you lazy bum. Maybe I'll
see you again, when I've disintegrated and become part of the stars and you have, too, but even then I
hope it's not for a long, long time, after you've lived your life in full and traveled and experience
everything all over again and then some. After you've become a father and a grandfather and maybe
even a great grandfather, with all that dumb health food you like. After you've seen all you've wanted to
see and done everything you've ever wished to do and made number one on People's 'Sexiest Men Alive'
list.
I can't wait to hear all about it.
Forever and Always, Styles.
Yours sincerely,
T- Swizzle… Nice huh? :)
Harry's not crying, except he is, and he's sad and aching but he's so, so fucking happy.
Opening the door, he steps out into the hallway. From downstairs, he can hear Niall laughing
ridiculously at something and Liam shushing him, Zayn groaning in defeat, the sounds drifting up the
stairs and curling around him, dragging him closer. It feels a little like home. A new beginning.
Harry presses his fingers sharply into the imprint of Taylor's heartbeat on the back of his neck - like
Taylor, out of sight but never out of mind.
55

56. With Taylor's letter tucked safely in his pocket, Harry turns his face towards the sun and heads
downstairs.
56