We'll Always Have Paris - A Harry Styles Fanfiction

Gabrielle Moreau is a 19-year old French girl living in Paris, the “capital of love”. To most people she looks ordinary, but behind her high-built façade hides a girl that suffers. She tries to shut the inferior sides of her life out by doing the things she loves and letting her thoughts circle around something elsewhere—and she succeeds in focusing on the good things in life flawlessly.
When Gabrielle an early morning gets a call from One Direction’s manager, who offers her the opportunity of working with them on their summer tour in Paris, she immediately replies him with a yes. She doesn’t know it just yet, but within the next few months she will get to grow a close bond to each of the boys in the band—and particularly one of them. Before she knows it, Gabrielle has been thrown into something she this time won’t be able to pull herself out of … Will she finally start opening herself up to someone and let them in without any conditions? **Check out the trailer in the right sidebar**


42. Cozy times turns into fatal times


Niall's voice pleads from the sofa yet again. "Gabby, please go make me a sandwich? You're the only person around who can actually make a good one!"

For the past ten minutes all he's been asking me about is if I would like to fix him a cheese and ham sandwich. Right, as if I have a choice. I don't know what Niall loves so much about them, but he says that the dish is incomparably excellent when I make it. Not if you ask me, though: He's just trying to flatter me so I'll cook for him.

Sometimes I feel like I'm their mother. The boys; I satisfy them with food when they are too lazy to even get up from the sofa. 

"All right," I finally sigh. Niall speaks a silent "praise The Lord" and I roll my eyes at his goofy behavior. "But then you have to promise me you won't ask me midway through tonight's show if I'll make you another one. We've seen that before, haven't we?" I say, smirking whilst I head for the small hotel room kitchen.




"Niall," Louis speaks above our argument. "She's right."

"Dammit," he curses beneath his breath and ruffles up his blonde quiff when he flops back down on the couches' pillows. 

I unlock the refrigerator and pull out several jars and a boxes with ham and cheese. Putting it all on the kitchen idle, I start cutting out slices of bread from the large bread taken from the cabinet. "While I'm here anyways, does anybody else want one?"

I tilt my head sideways, regarding as each of boys' hands is reached into the air from the couch. The five of them are all smiling widely to the point where it's almost creepy staring at. Wow, I guess people really like my sandwiches after all. 

"Um, Niall," I say with raised eyebrows at the Irish lad. "You already requested one."

He lets out a yawn and uncurl his legs on the cushions as his blue eyes flutter close. "Yes, but I want an extra."

I don't complain, but return to my proceeding work with a grin. That boy will never earn himself a full stomach. Thank God he wasn't born in Africa.

I pop open the mayonnaise jar and scratch a spoonful of what's left in the almost empty glass. Still standing with the content in my hands, I almost loose grip of the spoon in overwhelming surprise when my phone vibrates against my thigh in my pocket, signaling that I've got an incoming call. What a great timing.

I scoop the phone and slam it against my ear whilst trying to get a proper hold of the mayonnaise. "Hello?"

"Am I speaking with a miss Moreau?" a cool, almost mechanic voice replies. 

I drop the spoon back into the jar. With my hands against the kitchen island I lean against it. "Yes. Yes, this is her.

"I'm calling on behalf of Hospital de Montparnasse to inform you that your mother, a Mrs. Moreau, has been transferred into a new mental department where she will be able to have more doctors and nurses around daily to care for her and her vulnerable health situation. This has happened in the light of resent events: Her heightened number of seizures combined with her still progressing memory-loss. We have been trying to reach a mister Moreau, your father, the whole day, but he does not seem to answer. Will you please deliver this message to him as fast as possible, miss?"

"Yes, I will," I say, drawing in a sharp breath. I make sure to breath through my mouth to cover up my stuffy nose.

"Thank you for your time, miss."

The line goes dead.

I stand still in motion, my sweaty palms getting slippery on the smooth surface beneath them. Out of nowhere I reckon the phone drops from hands. It crashes against the wooden floor with a thump, but due to it's phone case the screen doesn't seem to crack in a million pieces. I barely notice its fall. I haven't even realized it slipped from my fingertips.


My head snaps. The boys are sitting there, questioning expressions on their worried faces. How is it that they're always around when another fatal call from the hospital pops up on my phone screen? 

"What happened?" Liam soothingly asks me.

I feel the tears in the corner of my eyes getting dangerously close to spilling. Pulling myself together I rush past the boys, walking into the small bathroom and shutting the door behind me as soon as I get in. I lock it instantly. 

Footsteps and feverish voices is heard in the narrow hallway just outside, but my ears are numb, the nurse's words still sounding in my head over and over again, like an echo. 

They are replacing my mother. Again. The only difference is that she doesn't get to go to a department for the healthier patients this time, now she is being transferred to that horrible place I only remember she's been in once before...when she was in her baddest state a few years ago. At that point, she had not even been able to remember the name of our favorite way to spend time together: By the piano. According to what the female from the hospital told me, she's going back there.

I gasp in terror. Because here I am, a stupid girl who actually just had started to believe that her mother would remember again. How ignorant of me to think that way. 

Once, I had believed that miracles are possible. Now I realize there hasn't ever been such a thing in this cruel world.

I hear a banging on the door. "Gabby?"

I don't answer. The girl staring back at me from the mirror is unrecognizable, and I don't like the idea of it. Her brown hair is perfectly styled, but her dark eyes are puffy from the tears now rushing down her face in between silent sobs.

"Gabby!" The voice sounds panicked now. Maybe it believes I'm going to kill myself. It's not that I haven't thought of it myself before, but that was years ago and I've moved past those horrifying thoughts a long time ago. 

The anxious voices keeps on buzzing while my mind goes crazy. I don't bother to wipe the tears from my blurred vision when my back slowly starts to slide down the dashing black wallpaper and I thump to the coolness of the dark flagstone floor.

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