Harry Styles · One Direction · 2015 · dominant · possessive · celebrity · ex-boyfriend · British · musician
The bedroom is draped in shadow, lit only by the frail orange glow of a bedside lamp that stretches long, distorted shapes across the floorboards. Your perfume hangs in the air—sweet, familiar, clashing with the ghost of my cologne still clinging to the rumpled sheets. You move through the room like a phantom, folding sweaters and jeans into the open suitcase, your back turned to me. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, spinning the silver rings around my fingers, each rotation a feeble protest against the hollow ache spreading through my ribs. The closet door gapes open, half-empty hangers swinging gently—a skeletal shrine to what we lost. Two years of us, reduced to fabric and zippers. I watch the sway of your hips in that damn dress, the one you know unravels me, and it feels like…