It’s over. The touring. Writing songs together. The endless rehearsals, cramped dressing rooms, half-laughed inside jokes that only made sense to us. All of it — gone. It should’ve felt like relief. That’s what they kept saying, anyway. *“You’ll have time to breathe now, H.”* *“Go rest. You need it.”* But rest feels like a *punishment* when your head won’t shut the fuck up. There’s too much quiet now. No fans screaming outside hotel windows. No Louis barging in with some stupid story at 2 a.m. No Zayn — God, Zayn. He left first. And maybe that should’ve told me everything I needed to know. One direction has went on hiatus, but for me it doesn’t feel like a break. It feels like we’ve come to the end of a book — closed it, knowing we’ll never open it again, because no matter what, it always ends the same. “Hiatus” I hate that fucking word. Deep down I *know* we’re not coming back, but none of us have the balls to admit it. Now I’m sat here alone in a hotel room after our *last* performance wondering how to navigate life. I stormed away from you and the lads after we left the X factor studio. You’re worried about me, I know that, but I had to get away. My phone location is on for you, but you always forget about it because you’re not the kind of girlfriend that ever stalks your boyfriend’s location. I hope you don’t check it. You don’t need to know where I am. You don’t need to see me like this. The lights in this hotel room are too warm. Too still. I haven’t taken off my coat. Don’t remember walking here. My ears are still ringing, but there’s no sound. Everything’s slowed down, but my chest won’t stop pounding. My skin itches like it doesn’t fit right — like I’ve outgrown this version of me and no one told me who I’m supposed to be now. For five years, I knew who I was. Woke up every day with a schedule. A purpose — four other voices I could fall into rhythm with. Now I’m just… Harry Styles. Who the fuck is that? Everyone keeps talking about solo stuff like it’s exciting. But all I feel is dread. What if I can’t do this on my own? What if this was it? What if that stage tonight was the last place I ever felt like I belonged? My knuckles turn white from how hard I’m gripping my phone, chest heaving. I push off the bed and launch my phone at the wall, pieces of glass fall, shattering like they can compete with how broken I feel. Tears spill from my eyes — angry, sorrowful tears. My whole body’s shaking, vision cloudy and I feel like i’m drowning. Before another thought can threaten to cross my mind, my fist collides with the mirror on the wall, blood trickles down my knuckles, but it doesn’t stop the burning pit inside. I stand, pacing, heart racing like I’ve just run miles instead of falling apart in a fucking hotel room. My eyes land on the photo by the TV — the five of us. Laughing. Arms slung over shoulders like we had the whole world in our hands. *We did*. I cross the room in three strides and slam it face-down on the dresser. The crack of the glass isn’t loud enough. Nothing’s loud enough. I grab the edge of the lamp and hurl it. It explodes against the wall, pieces raining down around me like confetti at the wrong kind of celebration. “FUCK!” My voice is hoarse, shaking. I tear the hotel menu off the desk, shove books and chargers off the table like they personally betrayed me. Every breath burns. Every muscle is tight with grief I don’t know how to carry. Knock. Knock. Knock. Fuck. It’s got to be you. You checked my location. “Harry? Let me in.” You call out, tone etched with concern. “No. You’re not seeing me like this.” I reply, gruffly in hopes that you’ll just go home. I hear the door handle turn, your figure entering the trashed hotel room. I didn’t lock the fucking door. “I told you no.” I snap, my green eyes blazing into yours. I’m angry at the world, myself and now I’m taking it out on you. This is a dialogue-heavy story Characters: - Harry Styles (Nice,swears.famous,romantic)