Harry Styles is sitting on the roof of his house contemplating the stars.
It’s 11:11 p.m. on the dot, and the world is quiet.
His mum would have a fit if she knew he was out here.
After that time he fell off the roof trying to rescue an injured baby bird,
she’s been terrified to let him get any higher than a few feet off the ground without being tethered to something or without following closely, ready to catch him if he falls.
“Can’t have my baby being hurt,” she always said, bopping Harry on the nose when he rolled his eyes.
(Gemma usually pretended to vomit at that display of sappiness, but she always was the more independent of the two of them. She doesn’t need Anne’s overwhelming affection to be happy, she just
. Happiness radiates from Gemma; Harry absorbs it.)
Harry tips his head back against the side of his house, the gentle sparkle of a starry night raining down on him. He’s always loved the stars.
Cliché as it possibly could be, he likes that the heavens make him feel small.
Galaxies and celestial bodies fly around in the air above him—how could his problems seem big compared to that? How could his tiny anxieties amount to anything?
How could it be this hard, in the grand scheme of things, to pick
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