Unlikely (H.S.)

forty-six

~Harper~

It's nearly been a month since I joined Harry on the last leg of his tour. To say I am completely out of my element would be an understatement. I keep putting off the article demands from Janet, providing her with non-descript nuggets to keep her off my back. I know my time avoiding her is fleeting, but even though I've told her no, she keeps pushing me for more intimate information. She has confirmation of our relationship because his fans keep posting photos of me at his shows, or of us walking hand in hand in whatever city we're in. I am giving her just enough information, running it by Harry before anything, just to keep her off my back.

Thank God I told Harry when I did.

Touring with him has been unbelievable. In the hullabaloo of it all, I've even been asked for a few pictures, but I've politely declined. It feels almost dirty posing for photos with his fans, they don't actually care about me, even the ones that say they follow me. I feel like they just want a piece of me because I'm connected to Harry and I won't let it happen.

I can't let that happen.

I love this man with all of me, and I will not fuck this up.

When it comes with my videos, I've been trying to stay on top of posting, using the tour kitchen as my background, but not giving anything away about it being Harry's tour kitchen, just a mobile kitchen. With each country and city we visit, people have been following and watching my videos, stopping me in the street when I go exploring while Harry is rehearsing or sleeping or working out. It sucks that we haven't had too much time to explore together, but he tries. He tries so fucking hard to show me something in every place we've visited. And I cannot even fathom how it must feel to be so isolated while traveling the world. I sympathize with Harry more than I thought I would. My following has grown tremendously since I started posting consistently but I've had to stop reading comments because they've become crueler and crueler as time goes on. Harry keeps telling me to ignore it, but that's harder to do than I had ever thought.

People are absolutely awful.

City after city, venue after venue, thousands of fans screaming Harry's name. The energy is intoxicating, the adrenaline high unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. But now, sitting in the back of the SUV as we drove through the Irish countryside toward Slane Castle, it was clear that the whirlwind hadn't settled—it had just shifted.

Harry was beside me, quietly looking out the window.

Too quiet.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. His arms were folded across his chest, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his bicep. His knee bounced restlessly, and every few minutes, he exhaled sharply, shifting in his seat like he couldn't quite get comfortable.

"Hey," I murmured, nudging my knee against his. "You okay?"

His head turned toward me, his emeral eyes flickering with something unreadable before he forced a small smile. "Yeah."

I raised an eyebrow. "Try again."

He let out a breath, his fingers momentarily stilling. "Just—this show feels big, you know? Really fucking big."

Boy, do I know.

Slane Castle isn't just another venue. It is iconic. The weight of the artists who have played here before him—U2, The Rolling Stones, Bowie, Queen—is enough to make anyone's stomach twist.

I reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his. "You've played Wembley on your own. Twice."

"This feels different," he admitted, squeezing my hand. "Like... I don't know. I don't wanna fuck it up."