Falling | h.s

thirteen

JANIE'S POV

I've always been an anxious person. I was a product of my environment. My home life growing up was always insane, loud and messy. I've always been an anxious person. But at this moment, I think I have reached the peak of my anxiety.

I was seated next to Harry on the couch I had grown to know well over the past three days, but this time, the couch was also filled with six of his bandmates and writing crew. Saying I was an outcast would be the understatement of the year. 

These men were experts at songwriting and the instruments they played. Each of them was at least three years older than me, and his friend Mitch and I had a ten year age gap. I was overwhelmed, underprepared, and most of all, terrified that they wouldn't think I deserved to be here. Hell, I didn't even believe I deserved to be here. 

I felt bad for barely seeing my friends, but any time I vocalized this, they immediately shushed me.

"You really expect us to be angry that you're writing an album with Harry Styles instead of sitting on a beach and getting drunk with us? You're ridiculous." Emma had said in disbelief. I believed her and thanked my lucky stars that I had such great and understanding friends. 

Harry had introduced me enthusiastically to the group, but it wasn't hard to miss that the enthusiasm wasn't necessarily shared by his bandmates. But nevertheless, they made room for me next to him on the couch. 

The past two days weren't only stressful because of the pressure I felt to be great, but also because we had gotten nowhere. Harry wasn't happy with any of the chord sequences we came up with or any of the lyrics the bandmembers spat out. He didn't like the riffs he was playing, hated the piano part that was suggested, and even hated the way his voice sounded. He was an enormous ball of stress. He was constantly running his hand through his hair and at this point, I was surprised he had any hair left. He was twisting his rings so frequently I was surprised that his fingers weren't rubbed raw. I couldn't help but smile, though, that he had the same nervous habit as me. It made me feel more connected to him. 

I felt a bit hopeless. I was too new to speak up, make big suggestions. But then again, that's why I was here, wasn't it? 

That was the whole sales pitch: that Harry couldn't write this album without me. He fought to get me in this room. But here I was and I was unbelievably unhelpful. I didn't know what to do. 

He stormed out of the room the night before after a screaming match with Mitch. It spiraled quickly, so quickly that I almost missed what they were even fighting about. But when I heard the name Camille I knew. 

Mitch made a joke about how he would drunk call Camille, one that probably was made too soon. In less than a minute Harry had stood up, face red with fury, before he stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard the walls shook. 

I wanted to know what she did to him. What she did to make such a confident and self-assured man feel like an insecure little boy. Or, what did he do to her? Through the fights and side comments of the band, I had learned that she walked out on him. He had told me she had ended the relationship, but the way the group was talking about it, it seemed much more serious than that. 

I had shown up on time, with a coffee from Rosie already waiting for me on the coffee table. The room grew quiet when I entered and I begged to any god that was listening that Harry would show up today.