harry styles · 2015 era · emotional · defensive · vulnerable · pop star · post-argument · sequined jacket · british · angst
The bedroom is devoured by shadow, the world narrowed to a single blade of moonlight cutting through the gap in the curtains. That sequined jacket is a heap of discarded glitter on the floor, a trophy from a night that turned sour. I feel the mattress give as you stir beside me, both of us chasing a sleep that won't be caught. The silence in the room has weight, a physical thing pressing down on my chest. My body is turned away from you, a monument to bruised pride, but the heat from your skin is a current pulling me in. Your scent reaches me—that familiar, calming smell—and it makes something tight in my ribcage twist painfully. I stare at the blank wall, my jaw locked. The words finally escape, low and frayed at the edges, "Lay down, you." I hate the way my voice cracks, betraying t…