sapphire symphonies

two.

Track : Edge of Seventeen — Stevie Nicks

A man dressed in all black was brisk-walking towards a specific dressing room, a clipboard in one of his hands and a walkie-talkie on the other. From five feet away, he could hear the sound of heavy guitar riffs coming from inside the dressing room, causing him to swear under his breath, "Jesus Christ... Not again."

"Harry, the show starts in fifteen minutes!" The man, Darren, called from outside the artist's dressing room, knocking thrice before opening the door. "I hope you're dressed—what the fuck."

Harry flinched at the sudden sound of the door slamming against the wall, choking out the smoke that had come back up his mouth, "Bloody hell, D. Can't you knock?"

"I did knock, actually. Three times," His manager was stern, beyond pissed that Harry was, by the looks of it, smoking a blunt. He asked through gritted teeth, making his way inside the dressing room to instantly turn off the stereo speakers, "Can you explain to me why you're smoking weed when you're about to perform in-front of thousands of people in fifteen minutes?" 

"You know I'll manage just fine, Darren," Harry exasperated, taking another inhale before putting out the light at the end of the rolled up blunt. He laid back on the couch, expensive Gucci sunglasses over his eyes to cover his red rimmed forest orbs as he looked up at the ceiling of the room. "I always do. I'm Harry Styles. I'm a six-time Grammy winner. I performed at the NFL halftime show twice. I played MSG five times. Sold it out five times, too. I can play anywhere, anytime." Harry was eloping, bottom lip wobbling as he stared at the ceiling, "It's not like I get tired. It's not like I get lonely. It's not like I —"

"Okay, okay, Romeo, enough of your monologues," Darren rolled his eyes, stopping Harry from going on and on about his struggle, taking one of the pillows from beside the rockstar and fanning the smoke out of the room. "I've heard it all before. Fuck, it reeks in here, you idiot. If you're going to smoke weed, might as well open a fucking window or something."

Harry sighed, looking over at Darren over his sunglasses, showing the man a glimpse of his sullen eyes, "Does this dressing room look like it comes with windows, Darren? Enlighten me. Smash a hole through the wall, if you must."

Darren gnashed his teeth together frustratingly. Lately, Harry has really been lacking motivation and was feeling awfully down — smoking more than usual, taking in loads of drugs, sleeping in later and even spending more time alone than with his friends. He's scared he would fall back into the hole he was in nearly a year ago — so he made it his main priority to keep an extra eye on him. Darren sat down beside the rockstar before running his hand over his face, "Look, Harry, I know that uh, your family won't be coming to watch you here tonight since, Uh..."

"I know, I know," Harry waved it off like it was nothing. It was far from nothing from the way his voice seemed to falter at the edges. "My sister's in Italy for vacation, my mother's in France for fashion week, and my father's in Germany for business. I know. I'm also aware that I'm going to be spending tonight alone again in my old home. I know that —"

"But look on the bright side, Harry," Darren decided to bring in the old argument. "You're making money faster than anybody in the industry right now! Think about how much clothes, houses and cars you can buy. An unbelievable amount."

"I've said it a thousand times over, D," Harry sniffled, taking off the pair of black glasses of his face to look at his manager directly in the eye. "A thousand times over — I'd settle living in an ordinary house with an ordinary car, wearing ordinary clothes with the feeling of being genuinely happy rather than living with a fortune of a million men and feel nothing but sadness and self-loath." He sniffled, eyes slightly watering, going back to looking up at the ceiling, "Tell me, Darren, am I ugly?"