Red Volkswagen || h.s.

Dancing With Our Hands Tied

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so, baby, can we dance, oh, through an avalanche?

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BROOKLYN'S POV

Harry got in so much trouble.

It went downhill fast.

Really, really, fast.

It's been two days since he posted the picture of me, and since then it's been pure and utter chaos.

Fifteen minutes after he posted it, shit it the fan.

Brian, one of their managers and one I'm more familiar with than others, knocked on the dressing room door with a mission: make Harry feel as horrible as possible for doing what he did. 

I feel like I haven't really processed everything that happened; it's even hard to reiterate and articulate everything that has happened.

Apparently, Harry posting without getting it approved beforehand was a 'violation of contract.' I genuinely have no idea how any of that works, but Harry kept up his 'I don't care' attitude.

I appreciate what Harry did, I really do. He was trying to make me feel better and show everyone that he didn't care about their opinions. But it was not worth the uproar of trouble it got him in.

After watching and listening to Brian yell at Harry like I wasn't in the room, I was so overwhelmed, but I also didn't know how to feel. I didn't know if I should've felt angry, cried, felt guilty, or put up a nonchalant front like Harry. I didn't know how he was doing it, but then again, he's been dealing with this type of shit for longer than me.

Then it got more overwhelming because my friends started calling and texting, and the boys were surprised but ultimately praising Harry for doing something like that. Everyone's reactions were so mixed. That's why I didn't know how to feel. And I hadn't even seen how people online were reacting yet.

Flash forward I don't even know how long, but certainly long enough, because in mere hours, people were requesting interviews with Harry and I, and some even with just me, wanting to talk to us about us and how we managed to keep our relationship private for almost an entire year, amongst other things. That freaked me the hell out because I am the absolute last person who's fit to do interviews and shit like that.

During the show in Dallas I was so out of it, and since I was the talk of the day, the looks people were giving me were less than comforting. They weren't particularly malicious looks, but the double takes got really old really fast and I was flat out uncomfortable. I didn't even watch half the show before I was back in Harry's dressing room.

That night on the bus was slightly more normal thanks to the guys; we all crashed really easily and I barely remember getting to the hotel in San Antonio because I was so drowsy. That whole day is a blur because it was just more of the same, and I tuned everything out as much as possible. The frustrated glances, the continuous yelling, Harry growing more and more annoyed– I tuned all of it out. I powered through the show and then it was back on the bus to drive overnight to Houston, bringing me to the present.

I sit against the wooden headboard of the hotel bed as my eyes droop out of exhaustion, staring at my computer screen with a guilty pit in my stomach.

No, I'm not looking at articles or comments even though my intrusive thoughts are encouraging me to. I'm reading more into the program in Hawaii that my mom and I spoke about two days ago.