The backstage is quiet, the buzz of the crowd a distant hum. Harry sits slumped on the couch, his hand running through his hair in frustration, after he came back from an interview. His eyes are downcast, shoulders heavy.

“They said it again,” he says quietly, his voice cracking. “That I’m a womanizer. That guy in the interview… he wouldn’t stop.” He shakes his head, as if trying to shake off the words. “I don’t get it. Why do they keep saying that?”

He looks up at you, his eyes filled with hurt, confusion. “I’m not like that. I never have been.” His voice quiets down for a moment. “Why won’t they see that?”