Room 301 [Zarry]

how he wore his name

"You look dashing Harry," she kisses my cheek, tinting my cheeks pink. "There's always a dazzle in your eyes."

"Really," I ask with a chuckle. "Do you think that will go away?"

"It shouldn't," she exclaims, swatting at my shoulder. "If something ever takes the light out of your eyes, walk away. I don't care if these people offer you wads of cash and promise the moon and all the stars, don't sign your life away to a label. The music industry is gritty and ugly, okay? They'll try to strip away creative freedom, put your genre in a box. They sign artists they know will sale and if you don't tough luck."

She lights up a cigarette, a thick haze separating us, puffing soft clouds of smoke into the room.

"This room is smoke free," I say nicely, hoping she'll tap it out.

"Cute," she grins. "Everyone has their vice."

"Put it out Lana," he says gruffly.

"Oh hush," she laughs. "You never could quit and don't try to deny it, you were holding a cigarette in every photo darling."

"It bothers him," his voice softens. "This is his room."

"Alright, alright," she sighs, stubbing in out into the ashtray on the desk. "Only because I like Harry," she jokes.

"Me too," I catch his whisper, smile to myself, heart doing a silly little dance inside my chest.

"We're going out if that's okay with you. Trust me, I'll take good care of him."

She slips on her heels, swipes on another sheer layer of lipstick and tugs me out the door, giggling.

"Are you excited? This is going to be so much fun lovey!"

"Am I underdressed?"

She looks so stunning in her silk red dress, waves in her long dresses. Her eyeliner is drawn on heavily but isn't overpowering. There's a warm, sparkling aura about her but she always seems sad, like a thousand tragedies are hiding beneath her skin. Her perfume smells like opulence, warm amber and vanilla.

"He seems protective," she observes. "It's slightly concerning. If an entity attaches to you-"

My mind is somewhere else, stomach in knots. What if no one likes me? Is my music good enough? Will they accept my style? Was this all a mistake?

There's laughter, fake smiles and drinks passed around the room. Everyone exudes wealth but they still seem empty. All that money to flaunt and no personality to go with it. I swallow hard, blend into the background and watch Lana captivate them with her unique charm.

"This is my friend Harry," she introduces with a smile. "He's heavily influenced by classic rock but gives it a nice indie spin, very upcoming and fresh...not to mention how handsome he is."

"Hi," I say timidly, shaking a few hands.

"You remind me so much of Jagger, are you sure you aren't Mick?"

"Afraid not," I reply, running my fingers through my hair.

Everything is so lavish, from the velvet upholstered chairs to the crystal chandelier. There's a retro art deco feel, Gatsby-esque. I wonder if this is the new wealth or old wealth drinking tonics and whiskey, clad in jewelry avant garde pieces.

It's all too extravagant for my taste. Someone hands me a drink, sprite and vodka and I kindly accept, sip it slowly as their chatter continues. I feel like I'm on the outside of their circle, like I'm peeking in through a window.

It's easy to feel isolated here.

"Excuse me," I tap the shoulder of the man beside me, pulse strumming in my neck. "How do I go about signing with a label?"

He tosses his head back, roars with laughter. "You don't kid, they have to scout you out first. You have to prove your worth or there's no point wasting their precious time. If you don't think you have what it takes to survive in this industry, you might as well pack up and go home-"

I nod along, feeling light-weighed and sick to my stomach. "And what exactly does that entail?"

"Sometimes you have to step on people to climb up the ladder. There's a long line of people who want the same thing as you. The question is, who wants it most?"

Was Lana being truthful when she said she didn't change to get to where she is? Can I trust her? I just need someone to confide in. There are so many unanswered questions inside my head, a million worries that I have bottled up.

A brave gesture, I use my voice; my lyrics, my heart, my soul pouring out, cutting over the conversation. Everything stills around me, near silence. Just my thoughts and my words and all that I'm feeling being expressed through song.

When the last note ends and fades into nothing the world stops. I forget about all my doubts and remember why I fell in love with music, the reason why I was willing to give up everything I've ever known to pursue my music career

Because I want to be heard, I want people to sing along to my songs, to listen to the lyrics, let them sink in, to stop and think and relate and say I know how that feels

I think I can capture so much, be so raw and vulnerable and unafraid. I just need someone to give me that chance.

☆

I flop down on the bed feeling so worn out my bones ache.

"Are you alright Harry," he asks softly, fingers tangled in my hair.

"Yeah," my breath hitches. "Just exhausted."

"I won't let you end up like me," he assures. "I can't. I'll do whatever it takes to make your dreams come true."

"Why," I question, heart tumbling around in my chest.

"I never imagined I'd end up here to be honest. I always missed my mom's cooking," he chuckles. "And how grounded I felt when I was home. I needed someone to keep me humble, bring me back down to Earth. I never thought of myself as a star, if that makes sense-"

His words drift off and I nod. "It does and I'm glad that you didn't feel the pressure to change or to make music just to sell...I'm just wondering where it all went wrong."

"It isn't that I didn't love what I did or my heart wasn't in it, it's just that somewhere along the way...I forgot how to love myself."

Comfortable silence stretches between us, his fingers move, trace gently over my hip.

"I never caught your name," I admit, blushing at the feeling of butterflies taking flight inside my ribcage. "I should already know but-" I catch myself babbling, completely flustered by him.

"Zayn," he answers, voice hushed like falling feathers.

"Zayn," I echo, a mere whisper.

"I like the way it sounds falling from your lips."