After leaving Harry's house with your loaded bag, you walk a few blocks before you flag down a cab. You feel like you've just experienced a three hour workout, your limbs limp. The exhaustion and weariness is so deep that you swear you can feel it at a molecular level. It hurts to raise your hand to flag the taxi. Lifting your duffel bag into the back seat with you is like tossing around a 25kg bag of rocks. Climbing into the taxi, you lean your head back, closing your eyes, holding back tears with sheer willpower.

Hauling yourself upstairs to your flat, you drop your duffel just inside the door, falling face first onto the bed without removing your clothes. Heaving sobs wrack your shoulders. The screams that you hide in your pillow are those of a wounded animal. Your howling scares you, as you've never heard this sound from the depths of your soul before, but you can't seem to stop. You cry and sob and scream until you are completely spent, and then you just lie on your bed, staring at the ceiling, completely numb, feeling the time ticking away as slowly as a snail attempting to run a marathon. When your alarm goes off, you haven't once closed your eyes, and they feel like sandpaper as you haul yourself out of bed to take a shower. Oh, how you wish you could stay home and wallow, watching sad movies, listening to Sign of the Times nonstop, eating ice cream out of the container with a single spoon. But you have clients to see, reporters and fans to avoid.

When the hot moisture starts to fill the bathroom for your shower, you cry dry tears in memory of other steamy adventures; you literally have no tears left. It takes twice as long to put on makeup, and the dark circles under your eyes aren't covered very well. You feel this sadness will haunt you for the rest of your life.

As you put on your black skirt and gray shirt, you remind yourself that the whole reason you've left California, your father, and Harry is so you can have your own career. But damn. This is the worst heartbreak you've ever felt, and it would be nice to hide away, pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist.

On the tube, you keep your head down as much as possible, holding your book over your face, hiding under a baseball cap. You spot the photo of you and Harry a few times in newspapers and on phones, and there are a few glances in your direction. Cringing, wishing you had taken a cab instead, you avoid eye contact with everyone. But that picture is so hard to look away from when you see it. The way you're looking at Harry is embarrassing in its intensity. It must be the lighting in the store that makes you appear doe-eyed.

When the building's head of security, Nelson, meets you at the tube station to lead you in through the back door, he confirms the lobby is a mess, "We've been trying to keep them out of the lobby, Doctor, but they keep making excuses. We've instituted special protocols to keep the chaos under control. People need to prove they have an appointment to come into the building," He steers you through the back hallways, "I really hope this isn't too disruptive for you."

Feeling guilty, you clarify, "Too disruptive for me? I'm the one who is sorry! If it's too much of a problem, I can give up my lease...." Inside, you are shrinking to a tiny ball.

"No, ma'am," Nelson pleads, "This is the most excitement my team has ever had. We're kind of enjoying having something to gear up for! Please don't leave. This insanity will die down soon enough. In the meantime, we're here to support you however we can. That picture! Wow. It reminded me of a wedding picture of me and the missus. You and your guy deserve some privacy." He chuckles like he's an insider on a top secret project, and your heart swells with appreciation. You barely know this man other than to greet him every morning with a smile and a cup of coffee, and he's willing to do all of this to support you? Why do you deserve this?

Eternally grateful, you shake Nelson's hand as you part from him at the service elevator. Tears of gratitude well in your eyes as you smile at him while the freight lift doors close. You didn't think you had any moisture left in your body. 

Perhaps if it weren't for social media sites like fucking Twitter, you might be able to breathe.

Terri, the receptionist, is waiting for you at the freight elevator when it opens, and you see the evidence of a two-way radio on her desk so you suspect that Nelson and his team have been in touch. She holds out a cup of coffee to you with a sympathetic look. Your eyes well up at her simple kindness, and you are once more astounded at your ability to still produce tears.

"How are you doin', my friend?" Her sympathetic tone is overwhelming, and it takes all of your energy to nod to her. "'S'okay," Terri consoles you, handing you a tissue from her pocket, and you know that she had them ready just for you. Pulling yourself together, even if only temporarily and externally, you gather Terri in for a quick hug before you release her.

It's as you walk down the hallway that you realize these people -- security, Terri, and so on -- they think you're having a bad day because of the publicity. They have no idea that you and Harry are no longer together. You stumble in the hall as this awareness hits you. Would they continue to be this kind if they knew the truth?

Within 30 minutes of opening your office door, the phone rings three times, with two of your clients canceling for the day. There are about 65-70 messages on your answering service too. You return the first few, but it quickly becomes clear that most aren't seeking a therapist, but rather a story. Then there's the subgroup who wants to curse you out for daring to breathe the same air as Harry Styles. You politely say, "Thank you for calling," as you hang up on them.

When you're sitting at your desk after returning the first two dozen messages, your eyes fall on the sofa, and your breath suddenly leaves your body. Fuck. You had actually forgotten in your exhaustion that Harry had made love to you right there on that sofa. No. Fucked you. He had fucked you on the sofa. And now your stomach is churning looking at it. Right there. On that piece of furniture that you had bought because it was inexpensive and was the only one that appealed to you aesthetically. And now you want to burn it. Or toss it out of the window. You attempt to focus on your phone calls once more, but your eyes keep drifting to the cushions where you had ridden Harry as if you were riding bareback on a wild horse at a rodeo in Wyoming. Throwing up your hands in frustration, you rearrange all of the furniture so that you don't have to look at the sofa anymore. When you still can't stop thinking about the wild monkey sex you and Harry had experienced, you storm to the closet area, pulling out a large blanket you keep for winter. Throwing the cover over the cushions, you feel somewhat relieved. At least it no longer looks like the picture in your head.

You're pretty weary when you talk to Terri at noon as she brings lunch to your office. It's such a simple gesture, but the fact that you don't have to go outside of the building to eat is a huge relief. She shows you the latest article in the Sun which has an employee at the gym stating that Harry had met you "multiple times" in the steam room starting in March, implying -- well, it didn't matter what the implication was. The public would make up their own minds. You roll your eyes.

"I don't know, Terri. Maybe I should just pack it in. My clients are canceling left and right. The ones who have shown up expressed frustration at having to prove they had an appointment with me. Maybe my dad was right. Perhaps I should go back to America."

Shocked, Terri looks at you as if you have grown a second head, "Are you crazy?? You've got momentum. Some of these messages are potential clients who want to see you because you're obviously good at keeping secrets. Hell, you kept this secret from everybody -- not that I'm mentioning anyone in particular -- for a few months, right?"

As her words sink in, you feel a spike of pride in yourself. Yes. You had done that. Kept it a secret that you were dating the hottest male musician in the world. But then the reality deflates you, as you realize you also blew it by no longer keeping the relationship confidential.

With a hug, you apologize to your friend, "I'm sorry to have kept this from you. Honestly, though, we didn't tell anyone. Not our families. Not our friends. It was...." and once more your eyes well up with tears, "just our secret."

"I'll tell you what," Terri confides, "I'll start vetting these calls if you'll forward your phone to me. You know, ask them some basic questions. I've been bored here as the receptionist for the floor anyway. Most of the patients already know where to go. Making these calls will keep me busy."

Your heart is overwhelmed at the response. Your only hope is that the interest in your story with Harry fades as time goes on.

Beyond the gratitude, though, you feel extreme fatigue and sadness. How had everything progressed to this point? But there's no time or energy to dwell on the absence of Harry in your life. All you have time to do is focus on the fact that you are fighting for your practice and your career. Everything else will just have to wait.

=====================

I cannot sleep at Erskine House anymore. I've tried, but her ghost is here, and I cannot stand it. In every room, I picture her. The way she throws her head back when she laughs, belting out that glorious guffaw that makes me smile. In the kitchen, standing at the island counter cutting vegetables while I'm leaning across from her, watching her face change as she listens to me with that intensity that lets me know she not only hears the words, but understands instantly the underlying emotions. I see her in my closet where she loves to pick out different shirts to wear around the house, sometimes mimicking me; other times, gazing at me seductively as her hand hovers just at the top buttons. The two treadmills side by side mock me, and I choose to simply close the gym door. The pain stabs through me when I enter the master bathroom, where she's left her handprint on the steamed shower door more than once while in the throes of passion.

At some point over the last months, I had begun picturing the guest rooms filled with our children, laughing and running around driving their mum crazy. I knew just which room would be the baby's room, and I wanted it to be pink because our first would be a daughter. We would only have two children, because the other room on this floor would be for Nanny Anne or Aunt Gemma when they came to stay and love on our kids. The family room would be carpeted with toys, and there would be times I would have to move a bicycle out of the way so I could park my car.

No. I cannot stay at Erskine anymore. I have to sell it.

The first few interviews I go on after the devastating middle of the night trip to Tesco, I get asked the question, and although I'm prepared with a simple redirection, it makes me feel sad. What I'd prefer to say is, "Yes. She's the love of my life, and I'm thrilled to finally share her with the public," but instead I say something along the lines of, "She's a friend who was visiting." Which is lame, and we all know this, but the interviewers are respectful enough not to pursue the topic.

The next few nights that I'm in London, I stay at Nick's house, although sometimes I bunk at Ben's house or his dad's. Luckily, my promotional tour takes me to California the next week so I can escape, and even though SHE never stayed in my Hollywood home, I find I can't sleep there either. The demons chase me whenever I'm alone. So I've been sleeping at Jeff's house or Irving's or James' or even Rande and Cindy's. It would be pathetic if they knew why I am house-hopping, but I keep it to myself and move around to a different house every couple of nights. Being good friends, they avoid the subject. And I start to think I've dodged a bullet until I'm at dinner with Jeff and Glenne one night at their place, and Glenne asks the question I've been dreading, "So, Harry. What was up with you and that psychologist chick in London? Should I be shopping for a bridesmaid's dress?"

The look Jeff gives her would wilt flowers, but Glenne is undeterred, "What, Jeff? We should pretend it never happened? I've seen the pictures same as you have. And that chick is in love. Seriously, deeply in love."

Although I try to respond, my eyes fill with tears, and I quickly excuse myself from dinner. As I head to the guest room, I hear Jeff chastising Glenne, "Couldn't you tell he wasn't ready to talk about it? It's only been a few days. Give him time."