Different — 40 (Patreon)

Author's note: First of all, thank you all so much for reading and continuing to support me! I honestly can’t express how much your love and encouragement mean. You all make this so much more rewarding. 💛

I’ll admit, I teared up a little bit writing this chapter. Y/N’s anxiety really hit close to home for me, and I found myself relating to her struggles in a way I wasn’t expecting. I hope it resonates with some of you too. 💭

As always, if you have any requests — whether it’s for blurbs, one shots, or anything else you want to see — please don’t hesitate to send them my way! I love hearing your ideas and would love to bring your visions to life. Drop them in my inbox (or anonymously if you're shy!) and I’ll see what magic I can work 🌟

Thank you again for being here, and for all your support. You’re the best! ✨

The room was quiet, save for the subtle tick of a clock on the wall and the distant hum of a vent. Morning light streamed in through sheer curtains, diffused and soft, casting gentle shadows on the walls. It didn’t feel clinical — not exactly. There were bookshelves, a small plant in the corner, even a woven throw blanket folded neatly on the couch. Everything about the space was intentionally warm. Safe.

Harry sat on the couch, hands clasped tightly in his lap. His legs bounced restlessly.

Across from him sat Dr. Meera Patel, a woman in her late forties with calm, observant eyes and a pen resting in one hand — not poised to write just yet. She studied him patiently, letting the silence stretch without pressure.

“It’s weird,” Harry finally said, clearing his throat. “I didn’t think I’d be the kind of person who ends up in therapy.”

“What kind of person did you think ends up here?” Dr. Patel asked gently.

He gave a dry chuckle. “People who can’t cope. Who fall apart. Who don’t hold it together like they should.”

She tilted her head. “And you think you’ve been holding it together?”

His smile faltered. “I thought I was. Until I wasn’t.”

A beat.

“I can’t sleep,” he admitted. “Or when I do, I wake up feeling like something’s chasing me. I’m on edge all the time — loud noises, people touching me unexpectedly — it all sets me off. And I’m angry. Not just at what happened. But at myself. For not seeing it coming. For not fighting back harder. For letting her—”

He stopped, swallowing thickly. “I don’t even like saying her name.”

“You don’t have to,” Dr. Patel said softly.

Harry ran a hand through his curls, tugging slightly. “I hate how much it still controls me. I got into medical school. I should be celebrating. But it all feels… dim. Like I’m living behind a glass wall. Watching everyone else be happy.”

“You’ve gone through something traumatic, Harry,” she said. “What you’re describing — the hypervigilance, the guilt, the disconnection — those are all symptoms of PTSD. You are not broken. You’re hurt. And healing takes time.”

He blinked at the word. PTSD. It sounded too official. Too clinical. And yet… it made sense.

“I don’t want this to define me,” he whispered.

“It doesn’t,” she said. “But how you move through it — how you care for yourself — that can shape you. In the best of ways.”

Harry exhaled slowly. He didn’t have all the answers. He didn’t even know the right questions yet. But for the first time in a long while, sitting in that quiet, thoughtful space with a stranger who wasn’t trying to fix him — only understand him — he didn’t feel so alone.

Maybe this was how healing started.

The apartment was quiet, save for the gentle sizzle of garlic in the pan and the low hum of music playing from her phone speaker — a soft indie track she’d played on repeat all week. The windows were slightly cracked, letting in a breeze that stirred the curtains and brought in the scent of the city’s early spring.

Y/N stood barefoot in the kitchen, her oversized sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, her hair loosely pulled back. The wooden spoon in her hand stirred on autopilot — olive oil, onions, the start of something comforting. Something familiar. A bowl of pasta, maybe. It had always been her go-to when her thoughts were too loud.

She glanced at her phone on the counter. The email was still open.

Subject: Fellowship Opportunity — London Behavioral Institute

Body: Congratulations, Y/N. After reviewing your academic record, research work, and faculty recommendations, we are excited to offer you a one-year clinical training position in our Postgraduate Fellowship Program...

She knew it by heart now.

London.

It was everything she had said she wanted. World-class mentors. A focus on trauma psychology. A foot in the door of one of the most competitive programs in her field. A chance to learn, to grow, to build the career she had worked so tirelessly for. And yet, her stomach twisted with unease every time she thought about it.

She turned down the flame on the stove and leaned against the counter, arms folded. Her eyes drifted to the couch where Harry had napped so many times, to the blanket still folded on the armrest from the last night he stayed over. It all looked so normal. So theirs.

And yet, everything had changed.

He was finally healing — sleeping more, flinching less, smiling again. He had gotten into medical school. Northwestern. A fresh start. He talked about it like it was the sun on the horizon, something he could almost touch now. And she didn’t want to be the shadow behind that light.

But how could she leave?

How could she look him in the eye and say, “I know we just put our pieces back together… but I might need to leave for a while.”

She set the spoon down and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. The scent of sautéed onions filled the air, but her appetite was long gone.

A knock rattled the doorframe — not loud, but soft. A kind knock.

Her heart leapt.

She wiped her hands on a towel, trying to breathe steadily as she crossed the room.

It was Harry.

Hair still damp from a shower, hoodie slung lazily over his frame, his eyes searching hers immediately. As if he already knew.

“Hey,” he said, voice gentle. “Smells good in here.”

She nodded, stepping back to let him in.

He looked around, a faint smile on his lips. “Is it pasta night?”

“Yeah,” she whispered.

Neither of them brought up the email sitting open on her phone. Not yet.

But they would.

And soon.

Y/N stirred the sauce on the stove as Harry stepped inside and shut the door softly behind him. He leaned against the counter, watching her, but she kept her gaze on the simmering pot.

Trying to act normal. Like her heart wasn’t racing. Like she hadn’t been dreading this all day.

“How was your day?” she asked quietly, still facing the stove.

Harry didn’t answer right away. She could hear him shift, probably running a hand through his hair like he always did when thinking. Finally, his voice cut through the soft bubbling of the sauce.

“It was alright,” he said. “Therapy was… heavy. But good. I think I like her. My therapist.”

Y/N looked up at him then, her eyes soft. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “She doesn’t look at me like I’m broken. Doesn’t ask me to explain everything right away. She just… listens. Makes space.”

“That’s good,” Y/N whispered, her chest tight. “You deserve that.”

Harry smiled faintly and stepped closer, brushing his fingers lightly against her back. “Then I came home. Took a nap. Tried to catch up on that stupid pharmacology prep book. Failed miserably.”

She laughed, and it felt warm and real. “You’re ahead of schedule anyway.”

He shrugged, resting his chin briefly on her shoulder. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

He exhaled. “How was your day?”

Y/N froze for just a second. Her spoon paused in mid-stir.

Then she smiled, thin but sincere. “Productive. Did some laundry. Sorted through graduation forms. Burned the first batch of onions.”

He chuckled behind her. “A tragedy.”

She turned, finally meeting his eyes. There was something fragile in her gaze, something unsaid. Harry picked up on it immediately — his brows dipped in quiet concern, but he didn’t push.

Instead, he whispered, “You sure you’re okay?”

Y/N nodded. “I will be.”

She wasn’t sure if she meant it, but she hoped it was true.

For now, she handed him a wooden spoon. “Here. Stir this before it sticks.”

Harry took it, their fingers brushing.

And for a moment, in the middle of a kitchen filled with soft light and steam and unspoken truths, it felt like everything was going to be okay.

Even if the hardest part hadn’t come yet.

Harry stirred the sauce behind her, humming under his breath to some quiet tune she couldn’t place. The kitchen lights glowed golden, warm against the creeping shadows of the approaching night. It should’ve been a peaceful evening.

But inside her, a war was raging.

Sure, she was moving to England.

To his home country. The place that shaped his accent, held his memories, the streets and skies that had watched him grow. It should’ve felt like fate, like the universe was giving them a shared future.

But it didn’t.

Not with the timing.

Not with the way his face had lit up when the acceptance email from Northwestern landed in his inbox. She could still hear his disbelieving laugh, see the tears welling up in his eyes — joy, relief, pride, all rolled into one fragile moment. He’d worked so hard. Survived hell and clawed his way out of it. And now he was finally on the path he’d dreamed of.

How could she ask him to walk away from that?

She turned her face toward the window, pretending to wipe her hands on the dish towel, just so he wouldn’t see the guilt in her eyes.

It was selfish. So selfish to even think of asking him to go with her. Self-centered to imagine he could leave behind his dream for her. Harry didn’t deserve that kind of pressure. Not after everything.

He deserved to breathe easy.

He deserved to heal in peace, surrounded by everything he’d fought so hard for.

So she wouldn’t tell him.

Not yet.

Y/N swallowed hard and turned back around, forcing a smile as Harry offered her a spoonful of sauce to taste. She leaned in and blew gently before taking it into her mouth.

“Too much oregano?” he asked.

She shook her head, even though it was a bit strong. “It’s perfect.”

He grinned.

She wished, desperately, that she could just stop time right here.

But graduation was coming.

And so was the offer letter waiting, unanswered, in her inbox

They sat curled up on the couch, a soft blanket draped across their legs, the glow of the TV painting shadows across the room. The movie flickered on the screen — something Harry had chosen, something easy and light, the kind of film that didn’t ask for too much attention. Which was perfect, because Y/N couldn’t give it any.

She twirled her fork in the remains of her pasta, pretending to eat, pretending to laugh at the right parts, pretending to be present. But her mind was loud — louder than the film, louder than the ticking clock on the wall, louder than the gentle way Harry’s thumb traced circles into her shoulder where his arm lay draped over her.

It was comforting. Warm. Solid.

It grounded her in the moment and yet made her heart ache in ways she didn’t know how to explain.

Because this — this right here — was what she might have to leave behind.

The comfort of his arm around her. The scent of his hoodie she was wearing. The way he always held her a little tighter during scary scenes even if he wasn’t scared. The way he leaned his head against hers during the funny parts, chuckling softly into her hair.

She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to memorize the weight of his touch.

How do you leave something like that?

How do you ask someone you love to make a sacrifice for you, when all they’ve done is fight to get back on their feet?

Harry shifted slightly and kissed the top of her head, as if sensing her turmoil — or maybe just out of instinct.

She blinked rapidly. The sting in her chest was real.

She wanted to say something. She needed to.

But instead, she just nestled further into his side, letting the silence stretch.

Because how do you begin to ask someone if love is enough to span an ocean?

“So why aren’t you telling him? These are incredible news!” James asked, his voice light but with a hint of excitement. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Y/N. “It’s a job opportunity in London, Y/N. Do you realize how big this is?”

Y/N let out a long sigh, her hands wrapped around the cup of tea she hadn’t touched yet. She had been swirling the liquid absentmindedly, not quite ready to speak. The words felt too heavy to get out.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, it’s huge, yeah. But… it feels wrong. I don’t want to leave Harry. I don’t want him to think that I’m putting my career ahead of us.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but also more than a little confused. “So you’re not going to tell him? You’re just going to let this go?”

Y/N looked up, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s best for him. He’s about to start medical school, the school of his dreams. I don’t want to make him feel like he has to choose between me and his future. It’s his time now. I can’t ask him to leave all of that behind just because I’m going to London.”

James exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated. “Y/N, that’s the problem. You’re always thinking about what’s best for him. What about you? What about your dreams? This opportunity isn’t going to come around again. And I know you, you’ve always put others first, but at some point, you need to think about yourself.”

Sebastian chimed in, his tone softer but still insistent. “James is right. I know you love Harry, and I know you want what’s best for him, but you’ve worked so hard for this. And he knows that. He knows how much this means to you.”

“I don’t want him to feel like I’m abandoning him,” Y/N said, her voice trembling. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

James gave her a steady, knowing look. “He would never ask you to stay behind for him. He loves you too much. And you’d be a fool not to follow your dreams just because you’re scared of what might happen next.”

Y/N’s fingers clenched around the warm mug as she looked down. She felt a lump forming in her throat. “I’m scared, okay? I’m scared of everything changing. And what if this doesn’t work? What if we grow apart while I’m away? What if this ruins everything we’ve built?”

Sebastian leaned forward, his voice calm but serious. “You can’t let fear make your decisions for you. And you won’t know unless you try. You’ve always been there for Harry, Y/N. You’ve always supported him. Now it’s time for you to take that leap. For you.”

James added, “And I’m sure Harry’s going to support you, just like he always has. You’re not going to be walking this path alone.”

Y/N wiped away a tear that had slipped down her cheek. “I want to believe that. But I just don’t know how to say it. How do I even start this conversation?”

Sebastian shrugged. “The same way you’ve said everything else to him. Be honest. Let him know how you feel.”

Y/N nodded slowly, the weight of their words sinking in. She knew they were right. This was her chance—her chance to step forward into something new, something hers. She couldn’t let fear and doubt hold her back any longer. But still, the uncertainty lingered. Would Harry understand? Would he feel the same way?

“Thanks, guys,” she whispered, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

James grinned. “You’d probably make some terrible decision, like staying in Chicago forever.”

Sebastian laughed, the sound light and comforting. “Yeah, and we’d have to drag you to London kicking and screaming.”

Y/N chuckled, her heart a little lighter. “Maybe.”

But deep down, she knew that whatever happened next, she’d have to be brave. For herself. And for the future she still shared with Harry.