Art | Harry Styles

34

Harry hasn't slept at all.

It's nearing six AM, and his eyes are wide open, his back pressed to the mattress. His chest rises and falls steadily, opposing greatly to the repeated turning of his stomach, his heart in his throat as he faces the ceiling.

Sophie is sound asleep beside him, her eyelashes resting against the high points of her cheeks, her lips parted slightly as peaceful breathes sound between them.

She's clueless. And Harry hates it. But at the same time, he can't bring himself to tell her. He can't bring himself to speak the words aloud - he should've told her the minute he'd found her back downstairs, and the minute she'd pressed her lips to his cheek and he'd near-flinched. He should've told her when he said he was tired and they'd left two hours early, and he should've told her when they got into bed and his arms were shaking too much to wrap around her. To her face, he blamed it on the difference in atmosphere, confirming that parties just 'weren't for him' - but when left alone with his thoughts, he has no choice but to accept it.

The way Elle's hands had felt on his skin, like bugs crawling over the surface, as her lips, cold and wet had attached themselves to him.

The recollection of the lack of diligence in her movements, as well as her expression, is enough to make his eyes prick with tears, his breaths growing shaky.

His chest starts rising and falling - faster, and faster. His breath hitches in his throat, and his heart is thumping against his ribcage. And then he just can't take it any longer.

Harry stands up from the bed, his body breaking out into some form of a cold sweat, his t-shirt suddenly feeling tight against his torso. He pulls it outwards, as he stumbles into the bathroom, near-enough collapsing against the cool tiling of the floor. A quiet whimper leaves his lips as his fingertips curl around the toilet bowl, and he empties his stomach into it. His body wretches painfully, as he pulls his own hair out of his face, scraping it back into a weak bun before attaching his fingertips back to the toilet bowl, his knuckles turning white at the intensity of his grip.

He feels disgusting. He feels dirty. He feels like he hasn't showered in weeks and as if grime is beginning to build up on his skin, as he drags the back of his wrist along his mouth.

He stands up from the floor, tugging his t-shirt over his head with a weak groan, as he slips each individual ring from his fingers, stepping out of his sweatpants and turning the knob to start the shower.

Harry doesn't want to cry. Not again. If he does, his throat will only grow drier, his eyes will only get puffier, and then Sophie will notice. It's not that he doesn't feel he can't tell her - it's that he's too ashamed. If he just wasn't too fucking nice than this never would've happened - if he had just had the strength to get up and push her off. He'd felt - still feels - so frozen; so incapable, so vulnerable.

And part of him doesn't want to put Sophie through it. He knows how broken her own experience has left her - and he doesn't want to even risk her blaming herself for his.

The water pours over his skin, droplets rushing over each individual inking, as he tries to calm the rising and falling of his chest back to its usual demeanour. His lip falls back between his teeth as he tries to stifle the sob arising in his throat, but he simply can't bring himself to. His tears mix pitifully with the water streaming out of the shower head, as he brings his hands over his skin, dampening the surface.

He's never felt so dirty.

He grabs the pink loofah he keeps in his shower, grabbing the bottle of shower gel and some out onto it, quickly circling the material against his skin in hopes to clean it as he always does. But the feeling - the feeling of filth just won't subside, and he finds himself reaching for the bottle again. And then again, and again, squeezing out near-enough the whole bottle and harshly circling the sponge against his skin, the skin rubbing raw and turning a deep red in colour, as he scrubs mercilessly against his body, the tears continuing to steam down his face, the hot droplets washed away by the shower. His skin is burning, each flick of his wrist more painful than the next - but he can't stop. He's wincing in pain, but the feeling won't go away. He's scrubbing, aching to be clean.

By the time he gets out of the shower, his skin is dry, raw, and a painfully harsh shade of crimson. His entire body is on fire, as he wraps a towel around his waist, eyes landing on his own reflection in the mirror for a mere second or two. Immediately, his eyes catch a dark purple bruise on his neck, above where Sophie had left hers a few days precious - this one is a harsh, bloody shade - caused only by Elle. His heart sinks a little at the realisation, and he decides he'll be sleeping in a hoodie.

He shuffles back into his bedroom, Sophie's position differing slightly from the way he'd left her. She's not a light sleeper, he knows that, but she's slowly beginning to stir.

"Harry?" she murmurs tiredly, eyelids dropping in an exhausted fashion as he reaches for a clean pair of sweatpants, tugging them on and quickly pulling on a hoodie to match.

"Mhm? Go back to sleep, I'm alright," he says, slightly hurriedly, straightening his hoodie across his torso.

"Baby," she sits up, pushing back a few strands of hair falling loose from her ponytail, "what's going on? Talk to me."

"I just couldn't sleep."

"Were you just in the shower?"

"I couldn't sleep, angel," he repeats, slight exasperation present in his tone, as he grows desperate for the matter to be dropped.

Sophie glances over at the digital clock Harry keeps beside his bed, on the small wooden table, easy to read due to his lack of presence in the bed. It's a few minutes before 7AM, and the room is still dark, the sun yet to rise.

"Okay," she shuffles back a little, pulling the sleeve of her shirt back up as it falls to rest below her shoulder, "then come here."

Harry tries to keep a straight face. Truthfully, that's all he wants. To feel her arms winding around him, and her face in the crook of his neck, whispering sweet nothings against his skin. But he's not sure he can manage it - hands and lips on him. But, then again -maybe that's what he needs. The touch that matters; the good kind of touch, to provide him with the reassurance he's been in need of for the past twelve hours.

Hesitantly, he bends his knee, pressing it against the bed to shuffle himself onto the mattress, edging closer to his girlfriend. Her hand pushes into his damp curls, fingertips shifting over his scalp, and for a moment, he feels relieved. A temporarily content sigh leaves his lips, as it near confirms that maybe this is what he's needed, as her lips ghost over his cheek.

He can feel his neck heating underneath his hoodie at such an intimate proximity, and suddenly he realises he was wrong. He can't - he can't do it. It felt right, and now the memory of Elle's lips against his skin, her hands on his body, and he has to stop his back from arching in discomfort, his lips beginning to tremble.

He stands up from the bed, inching away from it a little too quickly, a few short, panicked gasps leaving his lips. Sophie's eyes widen in surprise, her lips parting slightly in surprise.

"I-I'm sorry, I-" Harry begins to stammer, coughing to stifle the tears threatening to spill, "fuck, I'm so sorry, I-"

"Harry," she says gently, her tone soothing and calm, "whatever's going on, you know you can tell me, don't you?"

His face screws up a little, fumbling with his fingers as he struggles to force any words out, and instead his palms begin to shake. Sophie sits up onto her knees, not moving any closer so not to panic him further.

"Soph, I-I-" he winces, and he decides he has to tell her. She has to know that he didn't mean for last night to happen, and she has to know how he feels about her - truly. She needs to know how important she is to him, and that nothing will change that - and that ultimately, the truth is this, "I love you."

When she doesn't respond, his hands shake even further, and he begins to stammer once more, "I-I really do. I love you. I love you so much, a-and I think it might be killing me, be-because y-you mean s-so much to me, and I-I've never felt like this, a-and I love you. I l-love you so much-"

"Hey," Sophie edges closer to him now, her voice barely a whisper, "stop being so scared of me. Please." There's silence between them for a few moments, as she reaches to rest her hands on the sides of his face, and he shakily exhales.

"I love you," she returns, her thumb drawing smoothly over his cheek, before she repeats herself, "I love you. So fucking much."

And with that - how he feels for her; how she feels for him - Harry hopes it'll be enough.