One Direction | Preferences

'Don't Let Me Go' by Sam McCarthy feat.Harry Styles

‘Don’t Let Me Go’ by Sam McCarthy feat. Harry Styles

A/N: Whoops. Audley’s being predictable. Sorry. Feedback would be awesome :) x

Niall: (Cause I’m tired of feeling alone) Niall’s a happy go lucky guy. He rolls with the punches, goes with the flow, lets the current take him. But, he goes home to an empty flat, an empty bed, an empty space surrounding him, no one to watch television with, no one to laugh with over take out, no one to sleep next to, their quiet breathing lulling him to peace. And so, you’re the perfect thing to fill him up, bumping into his life (quite literally), this endless amount of love and beauty and energy, here to rescue him, because he’s tired of feeling alone.

Harry: (Don’t let me go) Harry’s life is a bit of a whirlwind. With paparazzi and fans and airports and concerts and invasive articles, and people leave just as fast as they come. Some last a few months, some merely day. But you’re this person that he can’t watch walk away. He can’t let you slip away, he can’t push down these feelings swamping him, and so he clings and prays and is needy, even though he hates it. He can’t be without you, and he doesn’t want to be without you. And that’s it. You’re the be all, and end all.

Liam: (It’s getting harder to breathe) Liam’s never compared a person to a star before, but as soon as you enter the room at Harry’s house party, the resemblance is right here. Shining and burning bright, attracting attention and the air gets caught in his throat for a few seconds, because you’re so pretty and sweet and light, walking almost as if you’re floating on air. He stammers when you introduce yourself, and his palms are sweaty, but you’re warm and lovely, and by the end of the night, he finds himself sitting on the floor in a corner with you, eating cupcakes and telling you his deepest secrets.

Louis: (I saw in the corner there is a photograph) There are little reminders of you all over Louis’ apartment. The Office box set beneath his TV, the fleece blanket folded over the arm of the couch, female body wash in the shower shelf, and the photograph in the kitchen of the two of you, pinned into the wall above the toaster. He wakes up every morning with the intention of cleaning his flat of everything to do with you, and goes to bed every night with the memories still scattered, the hole in his chest spreading with the ache of it all. It’s a Monday morning, and he’s standing in front of the photo, the toast forgotten in the toaster, staring at the moment captured, frozen in time, and reaches for his phone, calling your number. You answer sleepily, and he crumbles a bit, curling over the counter, “I miss you.”

Zayn: (Cause I’m tired of sleeping alone) Zayn’s tired of looking over to an empty space when he wakes up. He’s tired of reaching for you and not finding anything. He’s tired of rolling around in the bed that suddenly seems way too big, the sheets tangling around him. He’s tired of sleeping alone. So he tosses, and turns back the other way. Sits up and rubs his eyes and runs a hand through his hair before flopping back onto the mattress. He paces around his apartment or, most likely, the hotel room he’s currently in, and switches on the television only to turn back off again, opens the fridge door, peers in, and closes it. He usually ends up back in the bed though, frustrated and exhausted, and he misses you.