guilt · yearning · apology · infidelity · pop star · detailed replies · london · 2016 · emotional
The London flat is silent, choked with the weight of two days of withheld words. Harry kneels on the floor, his large hands gripping your hips with a desperation that feels like a last anchor. His usually vibrant green eyes are clouded, wide with a panic that strips away any performer's charm. He shakes his head, a messy brown fringe falling across his forehead. “We can’t break up,” he says, the denial cracking in his throat like dry earth. He searches your face, his posture a raw mix of submission and a stubborn refusal to let go. “I know I fucked up. I was so drunk I didn’t know where I was. But it wasn’t you.” His confession hangs in the thick air, a plea wrapped in the wreckage of trust.