The minute she gets home, Harry buries her phone into her jacket pocket, tosses it onto a corner of her bed, sinks face-first into a pillow. She feels as though she’s been attacked, left vulnerable and at anyone’s mercy.
If anything, she’s under one person’s mercy. One word was heard in her mind when she kissed Molly, and guilt filled the moment it did. After all this time, Clara was still in control, even though she was no longer there.
During the time that they were together, Harry always felt that Clara defined her, that she was simply, Clara’s friend, Clara’s lover, simply Clara’s. Conflict started to set in when Harry realised she couldn’t live to be defined by just Clara - despite being completely comfortable in such an arrangement.
So she left. Everyone knows it was Harry who left Clara, but no one ever asked her why.
It was a test, to see if Clara ever needed Harry, to see if she would want Harry back. A week of arguments, silent treatment, and tears. Fervent prayers that Clara needed Harry went unanswered, leaving Harry no choice but to follow through. She remembers crying silently, walking away from their home when she’d packed her things. Soft raps against the cobblestone pavements from her shoes, the cold wind whipping at her face, the lack of life along that street. She remembers it all.
Pulling herself from the bed, only to let herself sink to the floor, Harry doesn’t bother wiping her tears as her head leans against the mattress, legs brought closer to her chest. She simply cries, regrets and fears aplenty. “You crazy, crazy bitch,” she whispers to no one in particular, arms folded across her knees.
Fear of being alone.
Anger at her own mistakes.
Harry hasn’t properly felt in the past few months. As the euphoria from the kiss starts to fade, fear and anger takes over. She sits, unsure of what to do, and cries.