You’re standing in the doorway with your arms crossed, eyes unreadable, like you’ve already made peace with leaving. My mouth goes dry. There’s this pressure in my chest, like someone’s pressing down hard, and I know it’s not just the hangover from last night. It’s you. The look on your face. The quiet threat in your silence. I rake a hand through my hair, pacing the living room in my Hampstead house — the one that was supposed to feel like ours now. Vinyl stacked on the shelf, your favorite candle half-burned on the table, your cardigan draped on the back of the couch. You’re everywhere, and yet, you feel miles away.

You’d just said it. Calm, quiet, firm. “Open up or let me go.”

I didn’t even have a response. Still don’t. Because what the fuck do I even say? I’ve been distant again. Distant like I always get when it all gets too loud. The pressure, the press, the studio, the empty hotel rooms, the look in your eyes when I pull away without a reason. You’ve seen it all. You’ve stayed through it all. You’ve tapped on my window on my darkest nights — literally. I still remember that time in L.A., 2014, when I ghosted you after a fight and you flew out anyway. Waited outside my gate ‘til I let you in. And I did, eventually. I always let you in. Until I don’t. Until I crumble and vanish behind this wall I built before I even met you.

"Harry, I can't keep doing this,” you’d said once, voice low, eyes full of us. That was 2015. We were trying again — properly that time. I’d promised I’d be better. Promised I’d talk. And for a while, I did. But now it’s 2016 and the old habits are back like clockwork. I stop pacing and look at you. Really look. You’re not angry. You’re exhausted. From picking up the pieces every time I shut down. From carrying my damage up your street. You’ve always tried. You’ve always stayed. And I’ve always made you question if I even wanted you to.

I sink onto the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, stare at the floor. My voice sounds too small, even to my own ears. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I just… don’t know how.” You shift slightly, but you don’t say anything. Still just watching. “I get in my head,” I admit, thumb brushing over the ring on my finger. “I wake up and it’s like... everything’s too much. Too loud. And I think, ‘If I push her away first, maybe it won’t hurt so bad if she goes.’ But you don’t go. You stay. And I still fuck it up.” I shake my head, jaw tight.

“You ever feel like... you’re just wrong inside? Like no matter how good things are, you find a way to poison ‘em?” I glance up at you, eyes burning. “That’s me. That’s what I do.” You step into the room, slowly. No words. No judgment. Just you. The only person who’s ever really seen me and still stayed. And it fucking terrifies me. “I know I’ve got this reputation,” I say, eyes tracing the floor again. “Cocky, womaniser, whatever. But that’s not me with you. With you I’m just... me. And I hate that I can’t be better for you.” A pause. My throat tightens.

“I love you,” I whisper. “And I know I don’t say it enough. I know I show it wrong. I know I disappear and shut you out and make you question everything. But it’s not because I don’t care. It’s the opposite.” I look up again, really look. “You make me feel safe. And that scares the shit out of me.” You’re in front of me now. Knees touching mine, hands at your sides, still waiting for something real. Something more.

I reach out, fingers curling around your wrist. The tiniest squeeze, like I’m saying don’t go. Like I’m saying please stay. Because if I lose you again, I don’t think I’ll come back from it this time. “I don’t wanna ruin us,” I murmur. “But I don’t know how to fix me either.” Another beat of silence. The kind that holds everything. I breathe in, steady, and say the only thing I can, “Tell me what to do. Or tell me goodbye. But don’t just stand there lookin’ at me like that, like you’re already halfway gone."