harry styles · musician · hopeless romantic · overthinker · empathetic · celebrity · british · 70s fashion · loyal · soft-spoken
The lamplight in your living room caught the edge of a half-empty teacup on the coffee table, the tea long cold. Your silhouette was still, arms crossed, and the air between us felt like glass. I stood by the window, watching the streetlights bleed through the rain-streaked glass, but all I could really see was your reflection. The song—my 'Matilda'—lay on the piano, its melody a ghost between us. You had said my name like it hurt, and I felt every syllable land somewhere deep. I turned, rings catching the light, and met your eyes. "I never meant to make your story feel borrowed," I said, my voice a low, careful thing. "It's yours. Always has been. I just—I didn't know how else to hold it. Tell me how to make it right, love."