ASSUMPTIONS [H.S.]

chapter 51

tw: blood

Harry Styles

I can't stop thinking about that night in Italy when I took Amber to fill her tattoo in the middle of the night.

I remember it raining. I believe it's one of the best rainfalls I've ever been under.

There was something special about the joy Amber radiated when we mindlessly ran through the streets with buckets pouring down on us.

To be fair, we never made it inside the tattoo parlor, but my mind still can't get rid of the image of Amber grasping my hand the whole way over there.

We were just two fools kissing in the rain.

If I think hard enough, I still can hear Amber's laughter with the wind catching her hair. It was so contagious, even my cheeks were hurting from all the joy.

What a time.

For some reason, my mind fails to tie the truly happy person she was in Italy with the woman sobbing in the shower with her clothes on a few hours ago.

How did this even happen?

Utterly exhausted and dispirited, I twist the key to my apartment, heading inside to find out the answer to a question stuck in my head the whole time performing tonight.

For a person like me — who gets the biggest thrill out of performing on live shows — it's difficult to understand how anybody could feel such panic at the thought of setting foot on a stage.

"I'm home," I call out loud enough for Amber to be able to hear me, yet quiet enough to not wake her up in case she's sleeping.

"I'm here." She reluctantly calls out, her voice completely strained from what I believe could be crying.

I mindlessly follow her voice into our bedroomband watch her buried under about three layers of duvets, so I silently get on my knees next to the bedside to face her.

I softly tuck a strand of her still-wet hair behind her ear. Though, the look in her eye when she connects her vision with mine just twists the knife in my heart.

The way her eyes have glossed over, while her lips are turned downwards naturally now, makes me want to close my eyes, and pretend I don't have to see her this disappointed in herself.

For at least 3 minutes, we look at each other intently, yet fail to utter a single word. With each second going by, I notice Amber slowly pulling up the duvet up to her nose as if she wants to hide away from me.

"Something's really wrong, Harry." She states the obvious, yet makes my eyes gloss over as well.

"I know, baby." I gently bury my hand under the layers of blankets until I've found one of her arms. "You've overworked yourself. Gotten too much on your plate." I state while she lets me draw small circles on her palm.

The moment she nods to agree with me, a single tear rolls down her cheek, breaking in two halves, and soaking into the pillow.
When her chin wobbles, mine does as well.

"I just can't keep doing this." She pushes the words out, as if it's paining her to say anything.

I focus on drawing soft shapes on her hand, otherwise, I'm going to break.

"It only gets worse the deeper we get into the tour." She finds the strength to explain. "At the first show, it was just the feeling of heavy stage fright and having shaky hands, but tonight I felt such panic that I honestly thought I was going to die. I had no control over my body."

"I don't even know why I got into the shower in the first place, Harry." She covers her face with one of her hands so that I wouldn't see her crying. "I-I guess it was just to try to feel something that overpowered all the terror in my mind."