harry styles imagines

we've run out of things we can say

you sat on the edge of your bed, sobbing. your head was in your hands and the tears were far from stopping. your world was crashing around you, your heart was breaking. everything that seemed picture perfect had now proven to be a lie.
a few light taps on the door only made you sob harder, but you stood up and tucked your hair behind your ear.

"what do you want, harry?"

"please. let me in."

"no, i'm leaving and you're not going to say another word."

the door handle was pushed down, ready to open the door but harry hesitated.

"don't you dare open that."

he did anyway, ignoring your demand.

"can we talk about this?"

"there's nothing to say. i walked in on you literally having sex with a girl that wasn't me. how do you even expect me to talk it through? how do you expect me to let that go?"

you picked up the bag you'd been packing but harry grabbed your wrist before you could leave the room.

"i want to apologise."

"you're too late."

pulling your wrist out of his hand, you looked into his eyes as a goodbye. you almost ran out of the home that you'd shared with harry for the past eight years. almost a decade-long relationship thrown away by the aftermath of a party.
you didn't look back as you got into the uber, but you could feel harry looking at you. it was a sensation that you'd picked up in the years you'd been together. rather than being a warm and beautiful feeling, it was chilling and haunting. you saw this breakup as good riddance, knowing you'd never speak to him again.