It had been two months since the devastating accident. Two months since the screech of the tires and the impossible metal-on-metal thud that changed everything. You shouldn't have been driving so fast, not on the slick, rain-drenched pavement, and certainly not with Harry in the passenger seat. Even if he had encouraged it, under the haze of alcohol you both were under.

The crushing weight of that memory, that singular failure, was the only thing you felt anymore. You hated yourself for what you had done to him.

You saw the truth of his new life: the silent wince during physiotherapy, the sheer exhaustion of learning to master the wheelchair, the constant, frustrating calculations needed just to get through a single room, the accessible ramp that was always just out of reach.

You saw him truly, fully, like no one else did. And that vision was killing you. You had convinced yourself you could do it, that you could be the fortress he needed. You thought being strong was the same as being present. You were wrong.

Harry spotted your packed suitcase by the penthouse entrance. His frown deepened as he wheeled himself toward the bedroom where you stood.

“Are you planning a long trip? Why is your bag out here?” Harry asked, confusion sharp on his face. “What’s going on?”

“No. No trip” you managed, the words catching in your throat. You knew how callous this sounded. “I can't, Harry.”

The confession was bitter, a vile taste in your mouth. You were destroying the one good thing you had left because you couldn't face the hollow, guilt-ridden person you'd become.

"Can't what?" Harry scoffed, his voice climbing. "What the hell is going on?"

The sight of him, small and fragile in the wheelchair, was the final, devastating reminder of why you were doing this.