Somebody Else | Harry Styles

Seven

You rubbed at your eyes and groaned, already knowing from the way your head was still spinning that you would be developing a massive headache that morning.

You turned over and snuggled into the other pillow on your bed and furrowed your brows when you were hit with the familiar scent of Tom Ford. Your bed smelled of Harry, but he wasn't there.

It took you a second to remember why, but when you did, you wanted to die of embarrassment and shame. You knew that he was definitely mad at you for going out last night after everything you had said about needing to get your shit together–and he had every right to be. You were mad at yourself. You needed to stop running, needed to stop using alcohol and other people to distract yourself from some very real feelings. You needed to deal with your shit in a much healthier way.

You thought back to the night before, remembering only partially what you and Harry had talked about once you had gotten back to your flat. You remembered saying something about needing to get over it and then...Oh, God, you thought.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to throw yourself down the stairs for being such a drunk idiot.

You told Harry that it was him you needed to get over. That was just as bad as looking him in the face and telling him that you loved him.

"Oh, my god," You groaned into your pillow. "You stupid fucking bitch."

You tried to convince yourself for a split second that there was a possibility that he didn't hear you, but of course he did. He was completely sober and completely awake. Of course he heard you.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as the same words echoed over and over again in your mind: he knows, he knows, he knows.

***

He hadn't planned on staying the night, but then you said what you said and he couldn't bring himself to leave.

He had known–or at least he had some idea, some hope, that the guy you were talking about earlier that day on your bed was him; the one who was with someone else, the one she was sure didn't love her back. Despite that hope, he was still shocked. Up until that moment, he didn't know you loved him, didn't really think that you loved him back–how could he?

During your arrangement, you were always so...professional about it. You always stuck to the rules, kept him reminded of them. You encouraged his date with Serena, encouraged the ending of what was going on between the two of you. You went out and met other guys the same night he went on his date and never even gave him the smallest hint that your feelings were hurt by it, that you cared, that he was breaking your heart. How was he supposed to know?

Part of him was relieved. Relieved that he was right and that he could be with you. Relieved that he didn't have to feel like he was losing you anymore. Relieved that he could stop pretending.

He liked Serena, he really did–but he was in love with you. You were the one he really wanted, the one he longed for, thought of as his hand was wrapped around himself, dreamt about while someone was lying next to him. He was writing songs about you, not the girl who made him breakfast, her long hair still tousled from the night before when still, he was thinking about you. Your name stayed put on the tip of his tongue every night and he wished he could say it, but he couldn't. Not unless he wanted to completely break the girl underneath him.

He knew he needed to end things with Serena immediately–but he didn't know how. How do you tell the girl who has slept next to you almost every night that you're in love with someone else? How does he look her in the eyes and tell her that she was only ever a distraction from the thing he really wanted–a placeholder for something he was so sure he could never have? She was a tool he had employed to get over you and he didn't need her anymore; she never even worked.