UNTIL I FOUND YOU , sturniolo triplets !

afraid , chris

❝ you love a fool who knows just how to get under your skin . . .
boyfriends, harry styles

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cw: panic attacks, mention of self-harm, mention of ed
! angst/slight comfort
you might not like chris in this, sorry (not rly. i enjoy inflicting emotional stress in the form of writing)

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"i'm... i'm really trying, chris," you say, curling your fists into balls and squeezing your arms against your sides. "i swear."

"no, you're not, y/n," chris says, pacing back and forth across the room. you keep your eyes on the floor, staring at your shoes. you notice that one seems a bit larger than the other. did they come like that? "you're acting like a child. look, you can't even fucking look at me when i'm trying to talk to you."

your lip quivers, and you uncurl your fists. one, two, three, four, four, three, two, one. you tap your thumb against each of your fingers and repeat it and repeat it and repeat it until you lose track of your count, and so you start again. over and over and over. four, three, two, one. you hear chris yelling, but all you can make out is one, two, three, four.

"y/n," he yells, and you freeze, your thumb resting on your ring finger. three. "please, just look at me. don't shut down right now." his voice softens.

i don't want to look at you, you think to yourself. you'll just yell, and then i'll yell, and it makes no sense to do that, so i will stay put.

you stare at the floor. there are patterns in the carpet: swirls and curves and ovals, and it kind of looks like a 60s arcade carpet, but without all the fun colors. it instead is dull, a monochromatic color scheme of brown.

you hear chris sigh, and you hear him storm out of the bedroom and into what you assume is the bathroom, considering the direction of the slamming of the door.

you continue to stare at the floor. one, two, three, four. what even were you fighting about before? it all seems so silly now, it seems so silly that such an insignificant argument leads to a very angry teenage boy and a very scared teenage girl. four, three, two, one.

what are you scared of? is it chris? it couldn't be, one, two, three, four. he's never done anything. things are rarely his fault. he's assured you of this, casually placing the blame on you by deflecting it away from himself. sometimes, he will blame himself, though. he isn't heartless. has he ever explicitly said that an argument is your fault? no. he knows where that ends. it ends with cold bathroom tiles against your feet and back, it ends with your dinner in the toilet, it ends with blood on the white marble countertops that neither of you ever want to clean, because you cleaning it would be admitting that you need help, and chris cleaning it would be admitting that he cannot help you. it isn't his fault that it ends this way. your brain betrays you in its sweetest moments. four, three, two, one.

chris has never hit you. he's never even touched you. you're afraid of his words, perhaps; never afraid of him. one, two, three, four. maybe you should be, but it wouldn't make sense. you love him, he loves you, it's perfect, it's everything love should be. shakespeare says that if love ends, it was never love; you couldn't bear to stop loving chris. you couldn't bear to admit that you never did. you do. maybe shakespeare was wrong, and he probably was, but who are you to tempt fate? you could never not love chris. he hasn't done anything wrong. you're just scared, and sad, and he can't take it away, but he tries, but so do you, and he doesn't see that. four, three, two, one.

no, mostly, you are afraid of your mind, of the places you go while your feet stand still, of the memories that play while the world moves on around you. you're afraid of the buzz in your ears that always seems to overpower the sound of him yelling, you're afraid of the complete silence that falls shortly after, you're afraid of the way that your arms move without you realizing, the way they open the cabinet, the way they grab something sharp, the way they cut, the way your body can't hold down the food you need, the food you want, the way you cry when people yell at you, but then the way you shut down, like your body doesn't know whether to fight or flight, so it freezes.

you're so, so afraid. not of chris. not of anything, really, but yourself.

how cruel is that? the abuse you put yourself through. it is your mind, after all. control it. don't act like a child. look at him when he's talking to you. don't grab that blade. eat your food. calm down. stop crying. stop shaking. don't cover your ears, there's no noise. don't count. one, two, three, four. shut up. turn it off. shut up. stop. stop what? stop.

you don't know when you ended up on the bedroom floor, resting your back against the foot of your bed, hands over your ears, screaming. at least, you think you're screaming. your mouth is agape, and you're breathing really heavy, and you definitely hear something, but you can't tell if it's the buzz in your ears or chris yelling at you from the bathroom or you yourself screaming.

you don't hear the bathroom door open, the shuffle of feet towards you. you don't feel chris sit down next to you, you don't feel him cradle you in his arms, muttering soft apologies into your hair, tracing shapes into your palms as he peels them away from your ears. your screams turn to sobs, and his "i'm sorry"s turn to tears.

you don't know who's more afraid, you don't know who's trying harder, all you know is you are crying and he is crying and you are both scared and sad and helpless.

how to cure mental illness. how to fix someone. how to help. is love enough.

truthfully, it never is.

it is a start, though. chris loves you, and he will continue loving you until he has no more love to give. his love will not take your pain away, but your pain will not take his love away.

that in itself is enough.

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a/n
i really cannot tell if chris is supposed to be toxic in this fic. i did not intend for him to be (i intended for him to simply be confused and angry and upset and helpless), but he turned out a tad bit toxic. aren't we all, though!

apologies for this vent, but i truly enjoy writing angst the most. it's quite enjoyable to let out my anger on my silly little wattpad story.

i think i'm gonna start posting every sunday (but late, so basically monday). how does that sound?!

harry's new album is literally a godsend, and i am restricting myself from writing a fic for every single song (mainly because i'm not THAT evil to write one based off of matilda).

i dissected a frog the day i wrote this! i think i was a bit traumatized. and thank you for 21k reads xoxoxoxox