Harry Styles, the star of London's Jermyn Street Theatre. The main part as Dorian Grey now his to do with what he knows best; to act, but there's not a single script in the world that can teach you how to be someone else when you can't even stand to...
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"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." ― Oscar Wilde
"Louis," Jeff called out as he rose from his seat to rush after Harry, "Let him be, don't follow him!"
But of course, he was going to follow him. The man was in pain for God's sake, and pain was something Louis knew too well. Jeffrey may have been indifferent towards his casts mental state, but Louis would certainly not be. He ran up the stairs and out the front door, but the foyer was empty. Louis calculated whether Harry had run into the loges or out on the street. He chose to go with the later.
"Harry!" He shouted as he stepped outside, his eyes landing on the back of Harry's broad shoulders as he fought to put his coat on. Harry didn't turn, he kept on rushing towards the crossing of Regent Street. The rumbling sound of traffic drowning Louis voice as he tried to call after Harry again. He quickened up his paste, and just as Harry disappeared into the crowded sidewalk Louis got a hold of his wrist. Louis stumbled backwards as Harry turned around with speed.
"What?" He yelled, glaring at Louis who swallowed before looking deeply into Harry's eyes.
"I know you're not okay, so I'm not going to ask that," he said, fighting to keep Harry's focus on him. His eyes darted between Louis, the street, his feet, "I think you need to talk to someone."
Harry snorted, "Why?" he asked, and pulled his arm away from Louis grip. Louis hadn't even noticed he was still holding onto him.
"As I said, you're not okay and I don't know why. But I do know it hurts ten times more when you keep it to yourself," he said, and the anger from Harry's eyes faded. Louis recognized all of it. The tension in his body as his shoulder pulled upwards, the deep sadness that had clutched itself inside Harry's chest that shone through his weary eyes.
"And who am I supposed to talk to? Jeff?" he said, an ironic laugh following, "Zayn?" he said, his jaw clenching, "I'm-" he inhaled a shaking breath, "I'm alone," his voice sunk lower and his eyes got draped with glistening.
"Well...," Louis said carefully, afraid to say too much, but also afraid to say to little.
Harry looked up from his feet, up at Louis' who nibbled on his lower lip, "You could talk to me," he said, "If you want." He saw the confusion pass Harry's face, his brow knit together and twitches ran over his lips.
Harry stood in silence, before pushing his bag over his shoulder, "I think I'm better off alone, actually."
The words hit Louis hard, and he scolded himself for failing as he watched Harry turn his back against him, running over the street towards the Piccadilly underground. He shouldn't have followed him outside in the first place. He should've just stuck to his own bloody business. Whatever it was Harry was struggling with, he had no right in assuming his help was needed or wished for. It clearly wasn't.
