Conceited [H.S.]

FIFTEEN

HARRY STYLES

I sat on the familiar bed waiting for Andrea to finish changing. The comfort I felt walking into this apartment was scary, but I decided to ignore it. I didn't even get time to think about it when I heard her voice quietly singing my song. My fucking song.

The fact that she's listening to my album makes me so fucking happy.

I hear her closet door open and see her walk out in a pair of those black biker shorts and a black bralette that is covered by an oversized long sleeve denim button up shirt that she has tied up in the front. Her wet hair frames her face delicately.

She's so...

"I think you might have taken a few years off of my life," she tells me as she grabs two hair ties off her nightstand and makes her way to the mirror that is standing in the corner of her room. She sits down in front of it and begins to French braid her hair. I've never understood how people can do that on themselves.

"You have to admit that it was pretty funny," I have to hold back my laughter as I think back to the shriek she let out after hearing my voice.

I stand up from her bed and decide to sit down behind her on the floor. I stretch my legs out, one on each side of her as she continues to twist her hair into two braids. I lean to the side to make eye contact with her in the mirror and I notice the dark circles that are under her eyes. She must have been working a lot the past few days.

I want to ask her what she's thought of my album so far, but the fact I've been fucking useless when it's come to writing my second one makes me question myself.

Andrea's too nice to tell me if she hates my music and I don't want to be lied to.

I put all of my emotions into my music, not with people. In a way, I'd be asking her whether or not she likes me. Or at least parts of me.

I can tell that she enjoys being around me, otherwise, she wouldn't have agreed to spend time with me in the first place. Or responded to that message that I sent her.

I continue watching her braid her hair and think how massively fucked I am if I continue to get attached to this girl. By attached I mean that I find myself wanting to spend time with her all the fucking time.

I need to get myself back into check. I'm Harry Styles. She's just a nurse.

She's my friend, but she's just a nurse.

It's selfish of me to even be here. And at this point, I'm just waiting for the one thing that will shatter this friendship. It happens with everyone I become close to that isn't accustomed to this life. I shouldn't have ever reached out to her.

And yet I'm still fucking here.

She would hate being a part of my life. She would hate me.

She has only seen one of my many drunken nights. Given it was one of my best ones, she got lucky. If I get angry, I'll throw shit, scream, curse. I flipped a piano over once, that was probably one of my worst nights. If I let myself get sad then I tend to fall into a quite literal pit of pain and despair.

"I had a patient that spoke about you today," she says softly as I watch her.

I can't let my mind go to shit right now. Focus.

I can see the admiration in her eyes as she looks at me. Andrea if you knew the real me you would be looking at me with disgust.

"Yeah?" I ask her as she finishes up her braiding. She spins around so she's facing me and brings her knees up to her chest.