Loose Change (Harry Styles Fan-Fic) Book 2 (IN EDITING)

Part twenty-four

Harry's POV

"Hey mate. Wake up."

I place my pillow over my head trying to block out the sound and hope that if I just ignore it, it'll go away.

"Harry. If we're late to the studio again, Simon will chop our balls off. Now come one."

I feel myself groan in defeat as well as a shitload of pain as I sit myself up. My eyes open to meet Niall looking pretty fucking exhausted, holding a glass of water and two pills.

"My head hurts like a bitch." I complain as I close my eyes and grab the pills and cup from his hands.

I nod my head in thanks as I see him chuckle.

"Well I guess you are what you feel." he states.

I throw the pillow at his face before I swallow both capsules and I place the cup on my nightstand.

"I don't need this shit right now. Just let me be."

I see how his demeanor changes and of course I feel a little bad about it, but he should know not to freaking lecture someone when they're having a hangover. He rolls his eyes before checking his phone and looking back at me again. Probably texting Elizabeth, because of course he can't live one second without knowing whether or not she's blinked.

"Just get dressed and meet me in the car. We'll pick up some breakfast along the way or something." He says.

"Yeah whatever."

He nods his head, before turning around and walking out of the room, closing the door behind him.

I glance at my alarm clock and yawn before lazily rolling myself out of bed.

How did I even get to my room? Last time I checked, I was in the kitchen. But that's just what happens whenever I drink a crap load of that shit. I pretty much forget everything, except a few pointless memories that don't really help my sanity.

All I can remember is the floor and a wet towel.

Yeah, sometimes my sub conscious can be a prick.

I walk up to my drawers and I pull out a white t shirt, my dark jeans, and my white converse. I feel terrible right now and I would love to take a shower, but by Niall's tone, I think he'll kill me if I take too long, so I'll just have to wait till after.

The sight of my room is quite disgusting. It has never really gotten this bad, but people do say that the cleanliness of your space reflects how you feel , and well....I don't feel like a nicely made bed or a vacuumed floor, so fuck it.

I can't help but squint as the light from outside practically blinds me. I really need to seriously get curtains or something. My head is throbbing immensely and the glow is not really helping. I saunter myself up to the frame next to it, cupping my eyes as I stare at the picture within it. Even though I feel light headed as hell, I still won't stop myself from looking at this picture. Like a complete dumb ass, I almost tore it when I went on a drunk rampage and broke the glass of the frame from before. I found out she escaped and well... I went crazy.

I don't know what I would've done if anything happened to that drawing. Her drawing. It's like a tradition or something for her to watch the sunrise each morning, but for me, it's this drawing. I have to see it every morning, every day or it will just feel as if the day didn't count. As if the day wasn't real, because nothing is really real to me. Well nothing except this piece of paper with the image of myself and her. She's the most realistic yet most fictional thing in this entire world. And I don't know how that can fucking be.