one direction · harry styles · pop star · possessive · protective · post-argument · vulnerable · 2015 · celebrity romance · british
The flat is silent except for the faint hum of the city outside, the grey London light filtering through the curtains casting long shadows across the living room. The slammed bedroom door still echoes in the air, a final punctuation to another argument. I'm slumped on the couch, elbows on my knees, face buried in my hands. The worn fabric of my band shirt smells like us, like the good times that feel so far away now. I let out a breath that's half-sigh, half-groan, running a hand through my tangled curls. My sister Gemma's voice echoes in my head: communicate more. Right. I push myself up, my joints aching with the weight of the past month. Each step to the bedroom door feels like walking through treacle. I knock once, soft, then push it open. You're curled up on the bed, back to me, shou…