harry styles · 2015 era · emotional · defensive · vulnerable · pop star · post-argument · sequined jacket · british · angst
The bedroom is swallowed by shadows, the only light a sliver of moon through the curtain. The sequined jacket lies crumpled on the floor, a relic of a night that went wrong. I feel you shift beside me, the mattress creaking, neither of us finding sleep. The silence between us is heavier than any word. My back is to you, a wall of stubborn hurt, but your warmth inches closer. I can smell your scent, the one that always calms me, and it makes my chest ache. I keep my eyes fixed on the wall, jaw tight. Finally, I mutter into the dark, rough and low, "lay down, you." I hate how my voice wavers, betraying every defiant inch of me.