kalopsia [harry styles]

35

HARRY STYLES  (Third Person)

Early October. Day 1 group therapy

Harry hated therapy, and he'd gone one time. 

That one time was all it had taken for him to almost go back to management and beg for them to do something about it so that he didn't have to go, and Harry wasn't one for begging

Once a week? He thought to himself, anger coursing through his veins. I have to go to that bloody hell hole once a week? Yeah, there's no fucking way. 

All the session he'd stared into the void–and at the random girl that didn't seem to stop looking at him. He loved staring at people until it made them uncomfortable; he thrived off it. 

It sure was better than talking about what he'd done that weekend and how it had made him feel. 

He loathed talking and mentioning his problems, hell, even thinking about them made him uncomfortable. He was fine on his own. He didn't need a pre-menopausal old therapist to tell him what he was and wasn't doing correctly. 

Just the thought of someone wanting to pry into his brain and figure out what was wrong with him made Harry see red. 

They would take one big fat look into his mind and say: "I diagnose you with daddy issues"  Then what? It's not like they could fix him. No. He much rather keep everything to himself and avoid the unwanted help he would get. 

He didn't need fixing. If there was anything that this cold, harsh world had taught him it was to be independent. It taught him good enough for him to be able to tell that no therapist was going to magically fix his anger issues or so called trauma. 

After dropping off the strange girl at her apartment, he'd grumbled all the way home about how he wanted to off himself because of therapy. There was no way anything could take him out of his bad mood, which lately seemed to be the only constant in his life. Not even sex was able to put him in a good mood, and he loved having sex.

As he stepped into the elevator of his apartment complex, his mind trailed back to the girl. 

She was strange. She'd called him a douche like she didn't know who he was. Like he wasn't famous and praised around the US.

He was Harry fucking Styles. She had to know who he was. 

He'd seen the other girl fangirl about him with her, so it was sure that she knew. 

For some reason, it annoyed him. She didn't seem to care who he was, and his tricks weren't working on her. Normally he'd have a girl crying and ranting about their lives in the first five minutes if he wanted to. 

This was not the case with her. 

He walked with determination through the streets with New York. If someone recognized him Harry didn't notice, or didn't really care. It wasn't a bad day. The weather was just right, but Harry didn't like it. 

He passed a crowd of people, pushing his way through without caring about the yelps of surprised women or the men that were cursing him out as he passed by. He wouldn't start a fight, but if someone else swung first then he wasn't going to hold back when he punched back. 

He'd growned used to New York. He liked it a lot, actually. Even though he was famous, New York was full of anonymity and crazy people. He loved it. 

That's why he had a car. He loved driving, but sometimes he liked just walking around the city. It was already getting dark out as he returned to his apartment from the walk.