Prologue

::

Louis Tomlinson can feel the tears brimming around his eyes as he looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. A large bruise covers the area under his eyes, half the size of his fist, the deep purple hue slowly turning to black. The entire half of his face seems numb, but when he reaches up with his hand and reluctantly touches the center, he winces in pain, a thousand needles stinging where his fingers left his skin.

He looks at himself again. Aside from the bruise, there's a cut on his lip, right in the middle. It's healing already, he can see, but should he smile even a little bit, he knows it's going to send blood gushing out, and he'd have to start the healing process all over again. Not that he has anything to smile about at the moment. In fact, he's not even sure what he's feeling. Should he be angry? Scared? Confused? Sad, maybe? It seems like a combination of all of them, and he softly taps a finger on the cut like it's going to make a difference.

Just like he thought staying with Zayn after the first time was ever going to make a difference.

He should have left, left Zayn the first time he struck him. He didn't know why he believed Zayn's empty words, or why he was stupid enough to actually think that he would ever keep his promises. Was it because he was drunk at the time and he didn't know what he was doing? Was it because he held him close at night saying he's sorry and that he never meant to do those things and somehow, that made everything better? Louis tries to think of the reason as he turns on the faucet, and it's then that he finally lets the tears fall.

The warm water feels good on his skin. It calms down the angry bruise that he wishes would just drip away with the water, and he swears he can feel the weight of Zayn's hand washing off of him. He rubs the water along his arm as well, hoping it would carry away everything that happened that night—the tightness of Zayn's grip on his wrists when he tried to fight back, the cries that felt so unnatural and vulgar in his throat because he never imagined Zayn's temper to reach this far, the tears on the bedsheets when Zayn struck his face once, twice, too many and too painful to count.

He can't look at his face anymore. He turns the faucet off and wipes his face gently with a towel. He throws in in the sink, flicks the light switch off, and opens the door as slowly as he can, trying his best to keep the creaking from reaching their room. With quick, light steps, he moves across the hallway and stops when he reaches a closet. It's full of things they haven't used in a while: fishing poles, snowboards, ugly matching Christmas sweaters gathering dust, things they used to do and wear when they were first together, back when everything seemed like nothing was ever going to go wrong because they loved each other and that's all that really mattered.

He pushes them all aside and pulls out the largest suitcase he could find.

He can't do it anymore. He can't keep hoping to himself that it's going to be better tomorrow because the moment it seems like it is, seems like Zayn's finally come back to his senses and that it's all going to stop and be okay because he loves him so much, something pulls him further away and he's back at square one, trying to figure out if it's all going to play out the same way the next day when he opens his eyes again.

He leaves the suitcase outside the door to their bedroom and he walks inside as quietly as he can. Zayn's snoring off in the corner, a grating sound that wakes his bruise until it's pulsating again, angrier than ever, and it makes it hard to concentrate on the open closet door before him. He shakes his head and begins to pull out clothes in their hangers, piling them on his shoulders so he doesn't have to go back and hear that sound again. He grabs a pair of shoes down at the bottom and quickly makes his way back to the suitcase, where he stuffs everything in as neatly as he can, and it all fits just enough for him to close it and secure the latches.

He's almost there.

He takes one last trip back inside the room to get his wallet and his mobile, and along the way, he stops, something catching his eyes. He can just see Zayn's face in what little light the moon outside provided. Back then, he thought Zayn was the most beautiful person he had ever seen—how his eyes twinkled when he smiled, how not one hair was ever out of place, how good and sweet and perfect Louis's name sounded in his voice.

Zayn is dead, and the man sleeping in his bed wearing his skin is nothing more than a stranger.

He takes one last look before turning around, and out of nowhere, the tears have started falling again. He can hear himself breathing heavily, and he's horrified to hear each inhale becoming a whimper, and he clamps his hands over his mouth to make it stop, make it all stop. He drowns his sobs in his chest until it hurts and he's shaking and he's scared. He can't see anymore. He rubs his eyes with his fists but they don't stop coming, and he leaves the room just in time before he's reduced to a crumpled mess in the corner with his knees pressing on his forehead, arms wrapped around his legs, chest heaving in and out, in and out. It hurts to breathe and he hugs himself tighter because he doesn't know what to do.

It takes him an eternity to calm down.

He collects his suitcase and grips his mobile tightly in his fist. With a deep breath, he walks past the living room and takes out his keys in the bowl sitting on a table next to the door. He doesn't look back, he doesn't want to remember how things were, how things are now, and he doesn't want to know whether the soft "Louis" coming from behind him was real or imagined. He's tired and he doesn't want to imagine anymore.

He closes his eyes, opens the door, and takes a step outside.

::

Harry Styles sits cross-legged on his bed, shuffling through the seemingly endless sheets of music spread out all over his bed as he plays with the brown curls on his messy, messy head. Some of them are half-finished, most of them are empty. He's only finished a handful and they're safely tucked inside the notebook on his suitcase, and he wonders why he suddenly stopped writing them. Some held promise, others are completely off the map and he doesn't even know how to start, much less know what to do with them. He crumples the bad ones and shoots them into the garbage can across his room. They all bounce off the rim and he sighs. Well, there goes basketball, he tells himself, and he hops on his feet and collects all the remaining sheets, filing them neatly in the notebook and stuffing it under some of his clothes.

Something in the back of his head's saying just how sure are you you'll make it big? and, honestly, he doesn't know how to answer. Dropping out of school and pursuing a career in music seems like a future without much promise in regular situations, and sure, he's thought about other alternatives. Maybe he can become a doctor like his parents wanted him to be, or maybe even a chef. He does love food. But everytime he tries to set his mind on one thing, when he thinks he's ready take his head out of the gutter, pass all his classes, get his degree, become successful, maybe even have kids along the way, his hands always seem to find their way to his guitar and nothing else matters. And he strums and sings sad songs and happy songs and walk around the house serenading anything—silverware, the expensive china his mother keeps on tight lock in the cupboard, his reflection—and somehow, seeing himself playing in his reflection made him feel better than anything else in the world, and that maybe he will make it. All he needs is his guitar.

A knock on the door pulls him out of his thoughts and he walks over to his closet to get more clothes.

"It's open," he says as he takes out a jumper, and his mother peeks from behind the door.

"How's everything going?" she asks, sitting on the side of his bed and wondering where on earth had the floor gone.

"Great," Harry replies, putting the jumper back and taking out the one next to it. "Sorry 'bout the mess, I'll clean up before I leave, I promise."

"It's your room, Harry, I don't need to tell you how it's supposed to look," she says with a smile, and Harry lifts his head and grins back. He takes the jumper out of the hanger and folds it as neatly as he can.

"I still can't believe he said yes," Harry tells her, striding over to his suitcase and placing the garment right at the top. "I really did think he'd have sent me to boarding school the next day."

"Yeah, that was quite a surprise, wasn't it?" Mrs. Styles says with a laugh.

Harry closes the case and takes his time to secure the latches. "Thanks for trying to convince him, though. I want this, I really do."

"I know you do, sweetie. I know you do. And you're so good at it, I just can't sit around and let your talent go to waste."

Harry laughs. "Is that a purely objective view or just my mum speaking?"

"A little bit of both, I suppose," she says, her eyes following him as he picks up the case and sets it gently on the bed. "Look at you. You're all grown up now, and soon you'll have to start making your own decisions. I'll miss you."

Harry looks up and he feels his breath hitch his throat. Before this, the least of his worries were not catching the bus on time or missing his stop and having to go all the way around or that his flatmate might end up not liking him and telling him to hit the road and that he'll find someone else. But he doesn't know how to react to this. A million thoughts pound his head all at once and he swears he can hear them buzzing around in his head, and he looks at his mum and she looks at him, expecting him to speak, and for the first time in his life, his voice fails him. His heart starts to race.

Is he ready?

No more Dad fixing things when he messes up, no more Mum to make everything better when everything just can't seem to go right. What little independence he had growing up doesn't do anything to prepare him for this moment, and for a moment, he second-guesses himself again. What if nothing happens and he's just wasted a big part of his life chasing a dream without any guarantees and the more he tries, the more doors close, and he's going to end up going back home with nothing to show for it and he can just see the disappointment in his parents' face and he'll have to turn his back on the thing that matters most to him.

His eyes begin to sting.

"I'll miss you, too," he says, his voice breaking, and he can feel the first teardrop rolling down his cheek. He tries to wipe them off because he doesn't want his mother to see him like that, because he wants to leave the house strong and ready and determined, but his mother sees them and she stands up and gives him a hug. The smell of her perfume makes the tears fall harder and he wraps his arms around her, holding her tight, and buries his face in her chest, whispering "I'll miss you, I'll miss you, I'll miss you" over and over again until it's one garbled mess and he's not even sure what he's saying anymore. But his mother understands and she shushes him and pats the back of his head and does those things that make him feel better the way only his mother can and that's when he lets it all out.

"I know it'll be difficult at first, sweetie, but you'll have to hang on," she tells him, "You have to make mistakes because it's a part of life and even the best of people make them. Constantly. So don't you worry one bit, I know you'll make it. I can already see your name in lights and concert halls filled to the brim, and me and your dad will be right there in the front row cheering you on. Just know that when things go bad, you can always give us a call, and you can always come back and we'll fix it together, okay?"

Harry nods and lifts his head up and looks at his mother, the wetness in his eyes dissolving her into circles and lines, and he wipes his face with his sleeves and sees her smiling at him, and he laughs and tries to smile back.

"I love you, okay? We love you," she tells him, and he nods and he hugs her one more time.

"I love you, too," he whispers, and he brings himself back over to the suitcase, rubbing his eyes and catching his breath as he takes it by the handle.

"Have you got everything?" Harry nods and pats his mobile through his jeans.

"I'll give you a call when I get there," he says, trying to make his voice return to normal. "It's about, erm, about an hour and a half, the ride. Should be fun."

Mrs. Styles laughs and wipes her own eyes with her sleeve. "Yeah, should be."

Harry nods and picks up the black coat hanging on his closet door, folding it around his arms as he takes one deep breath. "I guess, I'll, er, I'll be going now. Don't want to miss the bus."

"Have fun, sweetheart."

Harry smiles and picks up his guitar case sitting against the wall near his desk. He hangs the strap around his shoulders and he likes the way it pushes perfectly against his skin. He gives his mother one last kiss on the cheek as he makes his way out of his room, and as he walks down the stairs, he looks at the pictures hanging on the wall—there are pictures of his parents with him in the middle, and the majority are of him through different stages in his life. He laughs when he sees the picture of him of the time he shaved his head when he was fifteen and he remembers locking himself in his room the entire day crying because he couldn't believe what he just did and how he looked utterly ridiculous.

He jumps the last step and he says a quiet goodbye to the living room. He slips inside his shoes sitting next to the door and he takes the smallest umbrella from the hook. He grips the doorknob and he turns back to look at the place one more time. He wonders how different everything's going to be the moment he leaves, and he tries to comfort himself by softly humming a tune. He smiles, opens the door, and meets the rising sun on his skin as he walks outside.