Harry Styles Blurbs (Reader Insert)

Weight in Gold

Trigger Warning: This piece of writing has mentions of depression. 

Oh, for fucks sake!"

Those are the first words that leave your mouth in the three hours since you've come home from a horrid day out in the real world. But, if you're being completely honest, it's just the latest in a staggering series of days that are similarly terrible, if not worse.

In fact you've come to savor, no scratch that- cherish, the bare intimate silence that safely encases you inside your flat. Aside from the occasional distant honking of a horn or the sound of one of the neighbors nearby slamming their door shut much too loudly, it's dead quiet in the building. There's always been an unspoken comfort in coming home from a long day, but lately it's getting harder and harder for you to leave that comfort.

Tonight was the same as any other, albeit it was a Friday and old, more energetic you probably would've gone out with some friends to the pub or had a few over to play some board games and sip on the wine that you had spent the majority of your last paycheck stocking up on. But everyone who hadn't jet off halfway across the world for their career was busy with their significant other or their job or classes- and you didn't have much energy to entertain as of late anyway.

So you'd come home and shut your flat door in a hurry after speeding through traffic to finally get home. You let your back press up against the door just for a moment before you open your tired eyes and shrug out of your jacket and scarf, hanging them up. Getting your shoes off was a bit more difficult, the laces and the heels were not a brilliant combination, and you'd almost fallen over in your haste to get them off. Then you'd got the tea kettle going before hurrying off into your room and dropping your backpack behind your bedroom door to hide it so it wouldn't taunt you all weekend with the loads of work you needed to get done. After a quick change into the pajamas you'd been wearing all week, gathering your comforter off the bed and depositing it on your couch and switching the tv on- you were finally able to take a deep breath.

After your Earl Grey was ready to go and you were comfy on the couch, you got the romantic film on the tv from last night replaying, settling against the frumpy fabric and getting your hair into a messy but suitable bun. But the handsome, chiseled, sweet man on the screen was only able to keep you distracted for a bit.

You didn't feel like crying. Not this time, at least. Your eyes had been stinging slightly all day from the bought of tears last night combined with you staying up late and reading as long as possible. So you pulled yourself off your couch and padded your way into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and pulling out the last frozen meal that you had left. You glanced down at the empty rack with furrowed brows for a moment before shutting it and ripping the box open. In 5 minutes you had a steaming (plastic) bowl of ravioli. But it's not enough, of course, so you crack into the bottle of wine that's near empty too.

It's not long before you're done eating and are refilling your glass when a series of three loud, determined knocks on your door startle you enough for you to break the silence. The wine sloshes with your jump and falls onto the granite counter just close enough to the edge for it to start dripping miserably to the floor. You watch it start to puddle on your floor in scorn, considering it was the last bit left in the bottle. But you can't think too long on it because whoever caused your spill in the first place is knocking again.

Fuck. You try to wrack your brain and remember if you've forgotten to pay the rent bill this month. Sure, you were a bit of trainwreck right now but you were always on top of things like that. And you can't think of any other person who would be visiting you except the little old lady that was your landlord.