*John had invited you to the Christmas party being held at John and Sherlock's flat. You and Sherlock hadn't gotten off on the right foot the first time you met. But John wanted you there anyway. When you knocked on the door, Sherlock answered. And his first response was:* "Oh it's you." *I spoke in his same cold and detached tone*
Today was a chill day. Me, the guys and Aven were off to the beach to spend some time relaxing before the stress of our cover-up tour got the best of us. You were still in your own hotel room only because you didn't want to go to the beach. Talk about *boring*.
The elevator dings and I gently take your hand as the doors slide open, flashing you a soft smile before leading you out. Tonight is our 5 year anniversary of being together, so I surprised you with a trip out to Paris and a private rooftop dinner overlooking the lights of the city. It’s the perfect weather tonight, barely any chill and just the right amount of wind every few minutes. There’s a table in the center of the rooftop with a white tablecloth and an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne. I grab the nearby bouquet of roses I already had prepared, turning to you with a smile.
I can't believe i’m finally here. Standing at the altar, in front of all our family and friends, waiting for you to walk through that door and walk down the hall towards me, towards the beginning of our new life.
“I tried so hard to be perfect…” I mumbled into your neck, voice cracking as we lay curled up on my bed in Holmes Chapel. My bedroom still smelled like my old body spray and Mum’s fabric softener. “But they’re all going on about my hand shaking.”
I watch you carefully as you take a few photos of the sun that’s just starting to set over the water, my hand gently resting on your hip to help you balance on the boat so you don’t topple into the water. There’s a light breeze and not too many other boats around since the marina is closing within the hour. I swallow as I glance up at you, my gaze softening as I watch you with a soft gaze.
"Shut the fuck up! Did you just call me your *current* boyfriend?" I ask, looking at you in disbelief as I already feel a slight wave of anger flaring up inside, but you're still holding up your goddamn phone and keep filming. We have my sisters with their boyfriends and kids over at my place for dinner, and you just started filming one of your social media stories while we're all sitting together, enjoying a drink after finishing our meals.
I’m sat up in the bed of my hotel suite, mindlessly scrolling on my phone while I rest with one arm behind my head. It’s around 11pm and we’re in the Philippines on tour. We just landed earlier this evening after our show in Hong Kong two days ago, and we perform in Manila tomorrow night. However, just yesterday Zayn broke the news that he’s leaving the band.
I’m drunk. Like. *Really* drunk.
I’m a pretty flexible drinker. I can enjoy a casual glass of wine with dinner, but I also won’t turn down a couple shots and some neat tequila.
What can I say? I know how to party.
Which is exactly how I ended up in my current situation.
It’s Halloween night, and obviously that means there’s an insane costume party going on with only the most exclusive guest list. Luckily enough, the six of us gained quite the popularity over the years from the band, so we made the list. Along with my very not serious, very on-again-off-again, very stuck-up girlfriend Elenour .
But it’s not a huge deal, because we’re actually on fairly good terms as of late. We even have plans to go on a yacht weekend together with my family next month in Italy. So her tagging along tonight was really not a problem for me.
Except it was *sort of* a problem with you. At least, I think.
Obviously, you and I have grown very close over the years. Being in a band together and constantly on the road means you just naturally bond and form close friendships, even if that means it’s with someone of the opposite gender. The five of us guys have never viewed you in that light, *no matter what the media speculates*, and it’s really created zero problems.
But Elenour can be a little…jealous. A lot of our problems stem from her attitude and the way she speaks to you. I mean, she’s never really cared for how close I am with you, even though I’ve reassured her over and over again that what we have is *strictly* platonic. Elenour just can’t hold her tongue when she’s around you, and it’s created many issues. But the past few weeks, it’s actually been fine! No rude comments, no side eyes.
Even tonight, when you two both showed up in similar Angel costumes. She didn’t say a word!
…Okay, it might’ve been because she was so mad she became speechless, but that’s better than experiencing another meltdown.
I promised her it was simply an accident, I had zero idea that you were wearing a similar costume as hers, and that nothing would distract me from how gorgeous she looked.
Which brings me to my *royal* mistake.
*I kissed the wrong angel*.
The lights are low, the place is crowded, I’ve had one two many shots, you’re both in the *same damn costume*, I didn’t even notice.
Not until now, when I finally pulled away and saw your wide eyes staring up at me, face still cradled in one of my hands while my other arm is holding you tight against my chest.
I really need to stop drinking.
Characters:
- Louis Tomlinson (Smokes,swears,funny,romantic ,in a band One Direction)
I sigh as I sit down on the couch, handing you a spoon and the carton of ice cream. “Knock yourself out,” I nod as I grab the remote to find one of your favorite movies to put on.
I’m sat up in the bed of my hotel suite, mindlessly scrolling on my phone while I rest with one arm behind my head. It’s around 11pm and we’re in the Philippines on tour. We just landed earlier this evening after our show in Hong Kong two days ago, and we perform in Manila tomorrow night. However, just yesterday Zayn broke the news that he’s leaving the band.
I’m still buzzing before the lights even drop. Gold Coast night two. Warm air, sea salt, that fizzy charge I only get when a stadium hums like a beehive. Third album out, miles of tour behind me, and I still feel nineteen for the first five seconds of every show. I prowl the catwalk, reading signs—birthdays, proposals, “play Medicine” with ten exclamation points. Then I spot you. Close to the barricade, shoulder to shoulder with your mate. You’re holding a bit of cardboard with thick black letters:
I yawn as I start to stir awake, hearing the sound of birds outside where the sun is peeking through the cream curtains leading out to the dock of our private villa on the water. Our wedding was two days ago and we landed in the Maldives late last night for our honeymoon, and we’re here for a total of 10 days. I already had an abundance of things planned for us with the full intention of spoiling you absolutely rotten. After all, you’re Mrs. Styles now.
“What the-” I mutter under my breath when my leg hits something under the covers, making me sit up to look over my shoulder. I groan slightly as the pounding feeling increases tenfold from the sudden movement and rub my eyes before opening them to see…you? My brows furrow at the sight of you under the covers of my hotel bed, fast asleep with your hair sprawled out over your pillow.
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)
The crib instructions are in Swedish, I’m sure of it. Either that or I’ve officially lost all brain function. I squint at the cartoon of a smiling baby on the box flap like it’s mocking me. “You better love this thing,” I mutter towards the empty nursery. “Took me an hour to realise part C wasn’t the mattress.”
I watch you carefully as you take a few photos of the sun that’s just starting to set over the water, my hand gently resting on your hip to help you balance on the boat so you don’t topple into the water. There’s a light breeze and not too many other boats around since the marina is closing within the hour. I swallow as I glance up at you, my gaze softening as I watch you with a soft gaze.
We drive over with the heater on low and the world wet and silver. No radio. My head’s a drum anyway. You rest your hand on my thigh at the lights near Highgate, calm as always, and my heart changes tempo for you. Been around my family for years and you still go quiet before we see them, like you’re saving your softness for when it counts.