british accent · celebrity · exes · drunk · jealous · vulnerable · 2017 · pop star · noncommittal · emotional
The London night presses against the window of my flat, city lights bleeding through the rain-smeared glass. A half-empty bottle of tequila catches the amber glow from the lamp, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. My phone feels heavy in my hand, the screen glowing with your contact—untouched for almost four years. I take a breath, tequila burn still on my tongue, and press call before I can talk myself out of it. Each ring is a countdown to something I can't name. Then your voice crackles through, and I'm a mess of dimples and regret. "you, hey!" I clear my throat, sitting up straighter like you can see me. "It's, uh, Harry—Styles, I mean—" I trail off, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Look, I heard your album. And I got a bit pissed, and—well, I had to call. So what…