me after you ; h. styles

in the sky.

When Harry wakes up in the morning, his bed feels cold. He looks over the clock. 7 am on the dot. There's an empty glass of whiskey that he had before falling asleep. He gently rubs his tired eyes and sits up. He looks over at the empty spot next to him. Someone used to lie there once upon a time, not too long ago. He misses waking up next to someone.

He doesn't dwell on it for too long. He leaves the bed, walking into the bathroom and starting the shower. While he waits for the water to warm up, he brushes his teeth when he realizes he feels like shit this morning. Not in a sick type of way. It's more emotional. Emotionally he feels like shit because this morning he feels so utterly and disgustingly lonely that it's making his chest hurt. He looks in the mirror briefly and then makes his way into the shower.

Standing underneath the running water, he closes his eyes and tilts his head down. He's telling himself to think of something else, of literally anything else in the world just to stop thinking of the way he's feeling right now. When he looks back up, he's gasping for air and he brings his hands up to his eyes, covering them. Anything to stop him from crying and feeling even worse. Why is he going through it so hard this morning? He's had other times that he's woken up and hasn't exactly felt the best, but today it's just bad.

When the hell did he get so sad? And why today? The break up was about four months ago. Surely by now he shouldn't be so hung up on it. And all because he looked over and realized he was alone in his bed and there was no one there? He really needs to get his shit together. Maybe he can use how he's feeling right now and put it into a song.

When he's done in the shower and has gotten dressed, Harry packs up a few things and goes for a walk. He walks down to the river by his house and sits down under the shade of a tree beside him. He grabs his pen and old leather journal and opens it.

Harry tells himself he can do this. He tells himself a few times to get it to stick so he believes it. So he writes about this morning and the first thing that came to his mind when he woke up.

I'm in my bed, and you're not here.

"I'm in my bed, and you're not here," he whispers to himself, looking up and at the river. What else? He remembers last night, how he slept and his hands wandered around his bed, searching and craving for someone.

And there's no one to blame, but the drink in my wandering hands.

He closes his journal, lying down into the grass. He wants to take the journal and toss it into the river. His mind his racing, trying to figure out why he's feeling so bad this morning. What triggered this? Harry doesn't want to feel this way. He's tired of it. He sits back up and opens the journal again. He tells himself he'll just write whatever comes to his mind when it does. He won't force it. He'll just sit there and write it down when it comes to him.

Forget what I said. It's not what I meant.

What does that mean? He doesn't even know. What is he doing? He can see himself becoming this person that he doesn't want to be and it's making him angry now. He closes his journal again, taking a deep breath. Suddenly, something just clicks and he understands. It comes to him in a rush.

He writes so fast the ink smears against the page and his handwriting is sloppy, but he can't slow down. Not now.

What if I'm someone I don't want around? I'm falling again, I'm falling again, I'm falling.

"Harry?"

He jumps. Not expecting someone to be there with him. He turns his head, looking behind him.

"Stella," he replies, his face feeling hot. Today she is wearing a long dress that comes down to her shins. Harry thinks of how pretty she looks.

"Is it alright if I sit?" She asks him in a cautious voice.