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Let It Happen [ ▸ ] 𝗛𝗮𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝗟𝗲𝘄𝗶𝘀 ⁰³

"𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾'𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖨 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗌. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾."

[ ▸ ] ⋆masterlist ⋆Let It Happen Playlist

✩ real life

✩ harry lewis x oc

⬅previous • next➡

Word count: 3.8 k

Summary: Both Alina and Harry have become different people now, but sometimes seeing it hurts in unexpected ways and while she’s learned to let go, he’s finally ready to beg for a chance to make things right.

Author's note: this chapter nearly killed me (and probably them too). Thank you for reading, or simply sitting in the quiet with them. <3

𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒆

𝗂'𝗆 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖾

Two days later, the air around her still hadn’t cleared. It followed her through the hospital halls, invisible but heavy—the kind of silence people walked around without naming.

Alina moved like clockwork: dark hair tied neatly at the nape of her neck, olive skin brushed by the sterile light, eyes sharp and steady beneath the tired fluorescent glow. She was the image of composure, the kind of woman people trusted instantly, even when she didn’t trust herself. Every movement was deliberate. Every breath measured. She was all control and no chaos, and that made her dangerous—to herself most of all.

Her hands were precise, her tone clipped, her posture straight. She didn’t think about him. Or at least, she tried not to.

But memory is a cruel, insistent thing. Sometimes, in the brief seconds between patients, her mind betrayed her—back to that voice, that name. Nina. Said like a secret. Like it still belonged to him. She hated that it made her chest tighten. So she did what she did best: pushed the thought away, buried it under routine, stitched herself back into the rhythm of the day.

Her friends noticed, of course, they lingered around her, Edward was the worst of them, he kept bringing her cups of tea she never drank, lingering just long enough for Victoria to notice, and for Joan to roll her eyes at both of them.

No one asked outright what was wrong. And somehow, that silence felt heavier than questions ever could.

Alina told herself she didn’t care. But she did.

Harry wasn’t doing much better. He sat slouched in the Sidemen studio, his tall frame folded into the chair like he was trying to disappear inside it. The soft hum of the recording equipment filled the air while a pen spun endlessly between his fingers, a small, restless rhythm that betrayed the stillness in his face. Around him, the rest of the boys were alive and loud, laughter bouncing off the walls. JJ and Ethan were mid-argument about something trivial, Josh was making half-serious jokes to keep the energy high, and Simon was trying to rein them all in. The cameras were rolling, the set lights were harsh, and Harry was somewhere else entirely.

He threw in a few empty responses here and there—an automatic “yeah”, a half-laugh, a reflexive nod—but none of it meant anything. His words were hollow, his smile delayed by a second too long, the telltale sign of a man pretending to be present. His eyes, unfocused, stayed fixed on the middle distance, on something—or someone—far from the bright, noisy world he’d built for himself.

When filming finally ended, Josh elbowed him lightly in the ribs, his tone easy but his gaze sharper than usual. “You’ve been quiet, mate. What’s going on with you?”

Harry sighed, dragging a hand down his face, the sound caught somewhere between exhaustion and frustration. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just tired.”

Ethan, sprawled on the couch and scrolling through his phone, didn’t even look up when he said, “It’s that doctor, isn’t it? What was her name again?”

Harry paused, the pen slipping from between his fingers and clattering onto the desk. “Alina,” he said finally, so softly it was almost a confession.

Josh’s brows rose. He leaned forward, voice lighter now but edged with curiosity. “So, what’s the plan? You gonna talk to her, or just keep sulking like a man who’s lost a war?”

Harry almost smiled at that. Almost. “And what am I supposed to say, Josh? Hey, sorry I disappeared for a decade, broke your heart, and pretended you didn’t exist—but let’s grab a coffee sometime?” The words came sharp, bitter around the edges, as if saying them out loud made the past more real.

Ethan laughed from the couch. “Send flowers. Works on Faith when she’s mad.”

Harry shook his head, but there was something like longing in the movement. This wasn’t a fight to fix with flowers. It wasn’t a missed text or a careless mistake. He hadn’t just left—he’d vanished. He’d made her absence a habit and called it ambition.

“I don’t have her address,” he said quietly, eyes lowering to the pen on the table.

Ethan didn’t look up from his phone. “Send them to the hospital. Problem solved.”

Harry didn’t answer. But the thought stayed with him.

Later that night, long after the others had gone, he sat in the dim light of his living room, scrolling through his phone with the hollow determination of someone searching for redemption in pixels. Dozens of florists. Hundreds of options. He scrolled past roses—too heavy. Lilies—too formal. Tulips—too easy. And then he saw them. Daisies. Simple, bright, forgiving. Her favorite. Or at least, they used to be.

He filled out the order form slowly, rewriting the message twice before stopping. In the end, he chose honesty.

I’m sorry. I’m leaving my number. Please call. I really want to talk. —Harry (+ his number, scrawled at the bottom)

His finger hovered over the “Confirm Order” button longer than he wanted to admit. Then he pressed it, the soft click of his phone echoing louder than it should have.

And then he waited.

Morning blurred into afternoon, and afternoon into night. He checked his phone too often, convincing himself he wasn’t. Every vibration made his pulse jump, only to drop again when it wasn’t her. The studio called. Filming continued. Life, as it always did, moved forward.

But she didn’t call.

And by the time the second night rolled around, the only sound in Harry’s flat was the quiet hum of regret—a noise he’d gotten far too used to living with.

Saturday night settled over London, thick and heavy, the kind of darkness that clings to your skin like humidity. It was the kind of night that made the city feel too alive, every sound too sharp, every light too bright. Harry sat on his sofa, phone in hand, the screen dimmed and still showing no new messages. His thumb hovered uselessly over the last text he’d sent—a number, a name, a simple plea that hadn’t earned him an answer.

Josh’s voice cut through the quiet, crackling down the line like a command. “You’re coming.”

Harry sighed, running a hand over his face, eyes closing against the sound. “I’m not in the mood.”

“That’s exactly why you’re coming,” Josh shot back, all cheer and zero sympathy.

Harry let out another sigh, heavier this time, the kind that carried the weight of things he couldn’t explain. But he didn’t argue. A night out had to be better than sitting in silence, waiting for a reply that wasn’t coming. Maybe if he moved fast enough, drank enough, stood in a crowd loud enough, he could drown the ache for a few hours.

The club was a blur of sound and color, tucked deep into the heart of central London. The bass thudded through the floorboards, lights flickering like electric veins slicing the dark. Perfume and sweat mingled in the air; voices rose and vanished beneath the music’s pulse. Bodies swayed shoulder to shoulder, strangers pressed close enough to share breath. It was the kind of chaos designed to make you forget.

Josh led the way, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. A bouncer unclipped a velvet rope, and they slipped through into the inner circle—a low table already surrounded by familiar faces. JJ was halfway through a story that had Vik doubled over with laughter, Tobi lifted two fingers in greeting, and Ethan waved them over with his drink.

Faith, seated next to Ethan, was the first to notice Harry’s expression. “You look miserable,” she called over the music, her smile bright enough to belong somewhere sunnier. She shoved a drink into his hand before he could refuse.

Harry took it, offering a ghost of a smile that didn’t quite land. “Thanks,” he said, voice dry enough to evaporate in the noise. He brought the glass to his lips, but the taste barely registered.

He leaned back against the leather seat, letting the music try to fill the empty spaces in his head. Lights blurred against his vision—red, blue, gold—but none of it reached him. He could hear the laughter, feel the rhythm beneath his feet, smell the familiar haze of alcohol and perfume. And still, none of it touched the part of him that had been hollow since the moment he’d seen her again.

Everywhere he looked, there was motion. The kind of life that once used to thrill him. Now, it only reminded him of how still he felt inside. He could almost hear her voice in the back of his mind—steady, measured, quiet. He’d left her behind, but somehow she’d taken everything that mattered with her.

And sitting there, surrounded by noise and light and people who cared enough not to ask, Harry realized he could drown in a room full of sound and still hear her name echoing like the only thing that mattered.

Alina stood before her mirror, eyeliner steady in her hand, the dark line drawn with a surgeon’s precision. The apartment buzzed around her, full of noise and perfume and laughter—the rare kind of chaos that only happened when all five of them had the next day off. It felt like a small miracle, a cosmic alignment too good to waste.

The idea had been Joan’s, obviously. She was already half-ready before anyone else had even said yes, her dirty-blonde hair falling in smooth, deliberate waves that caught the light each time she moved. “We’re going out,” she’d declared, one heel on, the other dangling from her hand. “Proper fun. Bad decisions. Worse dancing. Non-negotiable.”

Victoria was the soft chaos that followed. Her warm brown skin glowed against the dim light as she drifted between rooms with her usual, unhurried grace, curls bouncing freely around her face. She appeared behind Alina and caught a small strand of her dark hair, twisting it into a loose braid. “This gives club energy,” she said with a grin that made her eyes sparkle. “Lipstick, ID, low expectations. You’re ready.” She handed Alina a glittery clutch, as if it were a prescription.

Matilda arrived next, red hair gleaming in the mirror as she rummaged through the mess on the dresser for earrings. Her freckles dusted her skin like punctuation marks on a sentence that never ended, and her grin was so wide it was practically contagious. “We’re going to regret this tomorrow,” she said, voice lilting with delight.

“Then it’s worth doing,” Joan replied, snapping her compact shut.

Edward appeared in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, blond hair still damp from the shower. He tugged at the cuff of his shirt, already looking uncomfortable in clothes that actually fit. “This feels like a date,” he muttered, frowning at his reflection in the hall mirror.

“With yourself,” Joan quipped, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her tone was flat, but her smirk gave her away.

By the time the Uber arrived, the apartment was a whirlwind of perfume, laughter, and last-minute touch-ups. Victoria ended up sprawled across their laps in the back seat, her laughter melting into Matilda’s as the car hit a bump. Joan scrolled on her phone, pretending not to smile, while Edward tried to keep his drink from spilling as he passed it between them. Alina sat in the middle, surrounded by warmth and noise and life, and for the first time in weeks, she felt her chest ease.

A real smile found her lips—unforced, unpolished, real. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad.

The club wasn’t special, which made it perfect. The floor was sticky, the lights flashed like lightning caught in a loop, and the music was a little too loud. It was the kind of place designed for forgetting—faces blurred by movement, hours melting together in sound and color.

They claimed a booth near the dance floor, coats tossed into a heap, heels tapping against the edge of the seat. The air smelled like rum and something floral; the bass pressed against their ribs.

“To bad ideas!” Matilda shouted, raising her shot glass high.

“To bad ideas!” the rest of them echoed, laughter spilling over the music.

The liquor burned easy, the warmth spreading faster than any logic could stop it. Joan’s sharp eyes softened under the light, her usual composure traded for a rare, teasing smile. Victoria’s curls bounced as she swayed to the beat, soft laughter slipping out between verses of the song. Edward leaned into the table, that bright, boyish grin tugging at his mouth as he watched them all.

Alina threw her head back and laughed—bright, sudden, real. The sound cut through the noise for just a moment, catching in her throat like a spark. It startled her, how easy it felt. How light. For the first time in weeks, she felt something crack open inside her chest—small, but real.

Just enough for something honest to slip through. Just enough to believe, for one night, that she could forget.

Harry knocked back his drink, the burn trailing down his throat like something he deserved. Regret always tasted better with whiskey—it lingered longer, too. The low buzz under his skin was beginning to hum, soft and useless, doing nothing to quiet the noise in his head.

Across the table, Faith, Freya, and Talia were a blur of light and movement, caught in the pulse of the music. Their laughter slipped easily into the air, all warmth and noise and life. JJ and Ethan were halfway through an argument—football, from the sounds of it—voices loud, hands slicing through the air with exaggerated fury. Somewhere in the corner, Vik was recording it all on his phone, probably already drafting a caption in his head.

Freya returned first, hair sticking to her temples, cheeks flushed with effort and champagne. She took one look at Harry—slouched deep into the booth, glass dangling from his fingers—and arched a brow. “You look like someone dragged you out of your coffin.”

“I feel like it,” he muttered, not lifting his eyes.

She rolled hers and disappeared back into the crowd. He didn’t notice her go. His gaze had already slipped past her, skimming the edges of the dance floor where the lights stuttered and changed like the beat itself was gasping for air.

And then—he saw her.

It was instant, involuntary. The noise around him fell away, muffled by the sudden static in his chest. Blue eyes, dark hair, skin that caught the light like something he remembered touching once in another life. She stood at the edge of the crowd, a drink in her hand, head tilted toward the blonde beside her. She was laughing—open, unguarded—and it hit him like a collision.

Harry went still.

The club’s haze wrapped around her like smoke. The green of her dress gleamed under the strobe, short enough to make his chest tighten, dipping low enough to remind him of things he’d sworn he’d forgotten. Her hair fell in soft, deliberate waves, brushing her shoulders when she turned. Her body moved with that quiet kind of confidence he’d never seen in her before—no hesitance, no apology. She’d become someone he didn’t recognize and couldn’t stop staring at.

He blinked, half expecting the image to dissolve. It didn’t.

He couldn’t look away.

Alina hadn’t seen him. She didn’t know that, somewhere across the room, the ghost of her past was drinking her in like penance. She wasn’t thinking about the flowers he’d sent, the folded card tucked quietly into her desk drawer, or the number written at the bottom in his unmistakable scrawl. Tonight, she wasn’t fighting the urge to call. Tonight, she was someone else.

Her friends had pulled her to the dance floor, arms looped around shoulders, drinks pressed into waiting hands. The music swallowed them whole, a single heartbeat shared between five different lives. Victoria and Edward were lost in their own orbit, faces close, their easy teasing having finally tipped into something softer, more dangerous. Joan and Matilda were shouting over the bass, hair sticking to their skin, eyeliner smudged in the best possible way.

Alina was at the center of it—hips moving to the rhythm, laughter spilling from her lips, tequila burning bright on her tongue. The world around her blurred into light and sound and heat. For once, there was no before, no after, no ache waiting at the door.

But then—something shifted. A prickle at the back of her neck. The faintest shiver crawling up her spine. It was subtle, but she felt it. That pull, that instinct that had never lied to her. She paused mid-step, heartbeat stuttering against the music’s pulse, and glanced over her shoulder.

Nothing.

Just the chaos of strangers, all movement and light. The air was thick with perfume and sweat. No one was looking at her. Not really.

She turned back, exhaled, and forced herself to believe it.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, raised her glass, and let the lights hit her just right. The bass rolled through her, the kind of rhythm that made it impossible to think. Her body moved easily, fluid, surrendering to the sound. And for the first time in months, maybe years, Alina laughed—truly laughed—without calculation, without caution.

Tonight, she was here. She was electric. She was alive. And she was free.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

But somewhere, tucked between the pulse of the music and the beat of her own heart, a quiet voice whispered in the dark:

It won’t be this easy forever.

The night still trembled with the bass bleeding through the walls, the sound muffled but alive, like a heart refusing to die. Outside, London’s air bit at Alina’s bare skin—a cold, clean kind of ache that she welcomed. It grounded her, stripped away the remnants of heat and noise clinging to her from the club. She stepped into the alley behind the building, exhaling a breath that turned white in the dark. Her fingers dug through her bag until they found the soft crinkle of cigarette paper. The lighter flared once, a sharp spark against the night, and for a second, the amber glow painted her face in soft light. The smoke curled up into the sky, twisting toward the faint outline of stars barely visible beyond the haze. The first drag stung her throat, but she took it anyway—the burn was honest, and she could live with honest things. She leaned back against the wall, the brick cool against her spine, and stared somewhere between the rooftops and the sky, caught in the quiet that only ever came when she was alone.

She didn’t hear the door open.

“Since when do you smoke?”

The voice came like an old echo—too familiar to be shocking, too sharp to ignore. Harry. He was always where she didn’t want him, always showing up at the worst possible time.

“It wasn’t a habit you liked,” he said, stepping closer, hands buried in his pockets as if to keep them from shaking. His voice was softer than the night, but it still found her.

She said nothing.

“You used to gag at the smell,” he added. “Wouldn’t even walk near someone smoking. You said it made your eyes sting.”

She turned toward him, a flicker of defiance in her gaze. The corner of her mouth curved into something that might have been a smile if it weren’t so sharp. “Changed my mind,” she said, and took another drag, slow and deliberate, before exhaling smoke in his direction.

The words hit like a slap wrapped in silk.

Harry didn’t move. The thin orange glow of her cigarette illuminated the curve of her cheek, the shimmer of the dark green dress that clung to her like a secret. The girl he used to know—the one who laughed until she cried, who believed in forever—was still there somewhere, but she wasn’t the same. Her edges had sharpened. Her silence had learned to bite.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice low, measured. The smoke curled around her words before fading into the dark.

“I just…” His throat worked around the words. “I don’t know where to start.”

Alina didn’t move. The city’s hum filled the silence he couldn’t.

“Since the hospital,” he went on quietly, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you. About what changed.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then took one last drag, eyes soft but unreadable. “A lot.”

The answer landed like the end of a conversation, but she didn’t look away. Her expression stayed calm, composed, but her pulse betrayed her, flickering beneath her skin like a live wire.

Harry stepped closer, his voice rough with hesitation. “I always thought I’d see you again one day. I hoped I would. Just not like this.”

Alina’s lips twitched into something tired and wry. “It’s been a decade. Sorry I didn’t live up to your fantasy.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I just—” He sighed, the sound brittle. “I missed you. You were my best friend. I know I messed up. I’m not asking you to forgive me. Just… maybe a chance to start over.” His voice cracked then, softer, stripped of everything he used to hide behind. “I’ll beg if I have to.”

She blinked, her breath catching. The words didn’t sound like his—they sounded too raw, too unguarded. “Do it then,” she said before she could stop herself, sharp, reckless, a defense dressed as cruelty. “You said you’d beg. Go on.”

She expected him to scoff, to throw it back in her face. But he didn’t. He stared at her for a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, then looked up at the sky and laughed under his breath—quiet, broken, disbelieving. And then he did it.

He dropped to his knees.

The sight knocked the breath from her chest. “Harry—what the hell are you doing?”

“Begging,” he said simply. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried, heavy and sincere.

A few people passing by slowed, their eyes flicking toward them. Alina’s stomach dropped. “Get off the bloody ground,” she hissed, stepping forward, her hands out as if she could pull the absurdity out of the air.

“No,” he said. “Not until you say yes.”

“Harry, people are watching.”

“I don’t care.”

“Jesus Christ. Fine!” Her voice snapped like a live wire. She grabbed his arms, tugging him up, and when he finally rose, their hands brushed—just barely, but enough to make her forget how to breathe.

They stood there, close enough to feel the ghost of warmth between them. Neither spoke. The sounds of the city—the hum of engines, laughter spilling from the club—folded around their silence like static.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” she said finally, her tone softening against her will. “But fine. Monday. One o’clock. Café next to the hospital. Don’t be late.”

She pointed at him, the gesture sharp, an anchor for the chaos she felt.

He smiled—a small, uneven thing that looked almost painful. “I won’t.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world held still, suspended between what was gone and what might still be left.

And for the first time in years, it didn’t feel like everything between them was ruined beyond repair.

Just cracked.

And cracks, if handled carefully enough, could still be mended.