Harry Styles Imagines

Twitter Hate (Harry's P.O.V.)

I am awoken by the continuous claps of thunder outside of the flat. The rain is beating down hard on the windows.

I roll over and grab (Y/N) by the waist. A sob escapes her. I immediately release her, thinking that I've hurt her.

"What? What did I do?" I ask her, reaching into the night stand to turn the light on.

Her eyes are red like she's been crying a long time. There are tears spilling over the brims of her eyes.

"What's wrong love?" I ask, wiping away the tears with the stroke of my thumb.

She only shakes her head. She's said everything without saying anything at all.

"They don't like my haircut." She says through her tears.

"Who?" I ask, even though I'm pretty sure I know the answer.

"Your fans. They hate me."

I shake my head at her, then embrace her in my arms.

"They love you!" I reassure her, but it doesn't do much good.

"No they don't. You're Harry Styles, and I'm just his wife that has ugly hair."

I immediately regret the laugh that escapes my lips.

"You're the most beautiful girl on the planet, (Y/N)."

"Not according to the world of Twitter."

She lets out a sob, louder than the ones before.

"Baby. Don't cry anymore. They don't even know what they're talking about. I love your new hair." I rub circles on her back.

"Why can't people just leave me alone?"

I stumble over the question for a little bit, then realize I have no answer.