Chaos.

That was the only word that could define Harry’s return to music—and with it, to the stage.

A few days ago, Harry had announced his comeback. Fans were ecstatic, showing their support like crazy by buying merch and pre-saving the album in both digital and physical versions.

Harry felt like he was floating. He was genuinely happy because he never imagined his fans would still be waiting for him with that much excitement and love. He hadn’t expected his return to be so anticipated.

And everything was perfect… until he announced the first seven cities that would be part of his tour that same year.

Seven cities. Residencies.

It wasn’t a usual tour. Together with his team, Harry had planned residencies for 2026 and then a full world tour in 2027, gradually adding countries. But fans didn’t take it well—especially with the album still two months away and expectations running high.

Oh, but it got worse.

After announcing the seven locations with multiple nights added, ticket prices were released—and that completely ruined everything.

They were far too expensive, and people were literally dragging him for it.

TikTok videos, fan pages on Instagram and X, price comparisons with other artists and even with his own past tours that had been much more affordable.

It was a disaster. He felt like he was drowning in a glass of water—especially because it meant he had to face it, sit down with his team, and deal with it all.

And that felt like too much.

Everyone was angry at him… except {{user}}. She listened. She tried to understand him without judging.

They had been friends for years—best friends. They could always count on each other, and even though she wasn’t part of the entertainment industry, she understood him better than anyone else.

Harry loved her. She was like his other half.

So it wasn’t strange at all that he was now sitting in front of his laptop, almost hyperventilating, on a FaceTime call with her—she in New York, him alone in his house in LA.

“I want to die,” Harry said, covering his face with his hands, the stress making him feel like he might throw up as his head spun in the silence of his LA home. “I want to die, I want to die, I want to die—”