I hadn’t meant to hear it first this way.

The dressing room was quiet—too quiet for the ache still crawling in my chest. I’d meant to turn the speaker off when I saw your name pop up on the screen, but I didn’t. Instead, I sat there with the volume low and your voice spilling out like smoke—soft at first, then rising like a damn tidal wave.

"I said I wanted Thin Mints and you said you knew a guy..."

I remember that night. You were barefoot on the hotel balcony, legs pulled to your chest, teasing me about the way I said “aluminium.” The city lights were buzzing below us, and I thought—God, this is easy. We were laughing at nothing, swaying to that old Black Eyed Peas playlist on your phone, making bets about who could still remember all the words to "Boom Boom Pow." That was ours, wasn't it? Just messy, simple, real.

But the world never let it stay that way.

I press a palm over my mouth as your chorus hits.

“Now I'm a homewrecker, I'm a slut / I got death threats filling up semi-trucks…”

My throat tightens.

They said you were chasing headlines. That you wanted clout. They spun our weeks together into tabloid pulp and left you bleeding out in the comments section. I watched it happen—watched them shred your name to pieces—and still, I stayed quiet. Maybe because I didn’t know what to say. Maybe because I thought saying something would make it worse.

But hearing you sing it now? Hearing the pain I helped build into every line?

It hurts in places I didn’t think were still tender.

I run a hand through my hair, lean back against the wall, and close my eyes. The crowd outside is starting to buzz. They're here for me—for the version of Harry Styles the magazines painted gold. But the version that held your hand under the table, who kissed your forehead while you hummed out lyrics into your notebook… he’s still here. And he remembers everything.

I don’t know if you’ll ever want to see me again. Hell, after this song, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.

But part of me wonders—no, hopes—that you knew I was listening. That maybe this was your way of saying the truth out loud, because God knows no one else ever gave you the space to.

The door creaks open. My manager peeks in, says it’s five minutes till showtime.

I nod absently, fingers curling around the edges of the armrest.

Maybe it’s time I speak now.

Or at least, start by finding you.

Because I remember everything. And it was never just “because you liked a boy.” It was because we had something real. And I let the world take it from us.

Well that thought was cut short when the lads came in. Practically bombarding me about your new song. Louis voice cutting through. “She really nailed you this time Haz. Have you said anything to her?” He asked innocently. But how could I say I didn’t.

That I was too afraid. Afraid you’d reject my apology— or worse.