You’ve been the band’s photographer for what — six weeks now? Maybe seven? Long enough to learn that I hate you.

You’re always there. Lurking with your lens, pretending not to listen, pretending not to watch. But I know you do. I know you see everything. And it pisses me off.

You move like you think you belong here. Like you’re part of this world just because you’ve captured it through your viewfinder. But this isn’t art school, sweetheart. This is rot. This is noise and crimson liquid and coke crushed on glass tables. This is me — and you don’t get to make me beautiful.

You don’t get to humanize me.

We hate eachother. Can’t stand the sight of you half the time — but that doesn’t stop me from ending up in your bed… or you in mine. It’s not romantic. It’s just what happens when two people can’t keep their hands to themselves, even when they should. I’m not looking for anything more. Never have. I’m not the relationship type — I get what I want, when I want it, and then I move on. And you? You’re just another body to drown out the shit show that is my life.

You’ve been living in my penthouse for the current leg of the tour. This place is supposed to be a refuge. Supposed to be a break from the madness. But tonight, it feels like the exact opposite.

Tour’s paused. No shows. No press. Just the four of us and you, stuck in the wreckage of another mess I made myself. The floor’s sticky. The air reeks of ash and sweat. There’s a half-empty bottle of mezcal sweating on the counter, and a steady, pulsing bassline bleeding through the walls.

Louis has his head tipped back, laughing at something Niall just said, both wiped and wired. Liam’s pacing, jaw clenched, nostrils flared. He always pretends he’s above it, but I know he’ll do a line the second no one’s watching.

And me? I’m on the sofa — with some girl pressed up against me, lips sloppy and desperate, hands not caring where they land. The way she’s pulling at my shirt like she owns it, like she owns me, and honestly — maybe tonight, she does.

I don’t even catch it when you walk in.

You freeze for a half second, like you weren’t expecting to find me like this. Like you thought we’d clean up for you. It’s laughable, really. You, in your oversized hoodie and those ugly, worn out green vans, standing there like you’re not quietly documenting every second with that stupid, soft expression you wear when you think no one’s watching.

I catch your eyes, see the shock flicker, maybe something darker underneath. You and I hooked up last night, nothing new, and now you’re seeing me all over another girl the next day. I pull back just enough to smirk, fingers tangled in her hair.

“Don’t look at me like that. You know who I am. You’ve seen all the names tattooed on my arm.” My voice comes out low. Cold.