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Chapter Text

Harry slipped out of his bedroom and padded down the hallway, ducking into the bathroom. Staring into the mirror, he barely recognized himself with the dark circles under his tear-reddened eyes and the shorter hair.

His last resort had failed—no one cared enough to save him. He reached for his toothbrush case and retrieved the thin razor blade he kept in the bottom, accidentally cutting his fingers as he did so. Automatically, he lifted the injured fingers to his lips and sucked the droplets of blood off, barely wincing at the now-familiar iron tang.

Normally, he wouldn’t do this so carelessly, but no one was home and no one would be for a few hours. And besides, this was his last night. He was allowed a few mistakes.

Harry turned the shower on and clambered in fully dressed. It wasn’t like it mattered anymore and he didn’t exactly want to see the dozens of faint pink scars lining his forearms and latticing over his thighs and hipbones.

The water was scalding hot but he just tipped his face up to the spray and finally began to feel clean, like layers of skin were peeling off, revealing the real him beneath.

When he couldn’t stand the heat anymore, he slumped down the wall and scrabbled for the razor blade he’d left sitting on the edge of the tub. He shoved up his sweatshirt sleeve and pressed the blade down, flicking his wrist so the blade cleanly parted his skin. A dark line of red appeared, soon to be matched by another, and another, until a dozen new cuts marred his skin.

The water stung as it swirled over the cut, scalding hot against his reddening skin and the sticky warm fluid that was Harry’s blood.

His watch beeped—ten o’clock. He had to get moving or Louis would get home.

He tugged his sleeve down. Dark red lines soaked through the pale grey fabric, but he didn’t care. He forced himself to stand. When he shut off the water, he felt cold and alone. Trudging back down the hall to his bedroom, he retrieved the drugstore bag that held the two bottles of sleeping pills he’d purchased at various stores while out on errands.

His phone rang then—that wasn’t part of his plan. Hesitantly, he picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Harry! It’s Mum. Louis called and said you were feeling under the weather?”

“Just a cold, Mum. I’ll be all better tomorrow.”

He absently turned the bottles over in his hands as his mother chitchatted, reminding him to drink plenty of fluid and then updating him on how his sister was doing. Finally, she sighed.

“I wish you didn’t live so far away, sweetheart.  I’ll let you get some sleep now. Feel better, okay?”

Harry looked guiltily down at the pill bottles in his hand. “Yes, Mum.” He paused. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Harry. Sleep well.”

“I will.”

Harry carefully hung up the phone and exhaled, looking down at his blood-soaked sleeve. She had no clue. He trudged back to the bathroom, stopping in the kitchen to grab two bottles of water.

He sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor, leaning against the toilet. The sleeping pills alone wouldn’t kill him, but once he mixed them with his anti-depressants, they would become lethal. He shook a palmful of pills out and studied them.

They were small, white, round. His anti-depressants were skinny, oval, orange. Mixed together, they filled his palm.

When he put them in his mouth, they tasted bitter, but he washed them down with a gulp of

water. They scratched going down, so he resolved to take a smaller amount the next time. Harry repeated the process until his anti-depressant bottle was empty and he’d made it through a bottle and a half of sleeping pills.

So many of each was probably overkill, but he wanted to be sure. He wanted to not wake up.

The world was hazy, fuzzy around the edges. Vaguely, at the edge of his consciousness, he heard the front door of the flat open and someone turning the television on. He almost wanted to panic, but the sedatives were taking ahold and his eyes slipped shut, causing him to slump over.

The black was cool and inviting, but he wasn’t gone quite yet.

Faintly, he heard a scream and the dripping of the faucet, and then Louis’ voice.

“No, please, no, Harry!”

Harry felt his lips try to form the words “I love you,” but he suddenly felt so, so tired.

He fell into the black gladly.

Louis stumbled into the apartment, slightly tipsy. He hadn’t drunk a lot, just enough to be social because he had been a bit worried about Harry. The younger boy had just been…off the past few days, and then tonight, he’d turned down the offer of clubbing.

The lights were off but the TV was on, silent pictures flickering across the screen. He collapsed onto the sofa, turning the volume on but keeping it low so as not to wake Harry, who he presumed was sleeping. Harry had said he’d been feeling sick.

A faint thump from down the hall caught his attention, followed by a faint moan. He rose and went to investigate. He knocked on the bathroom door first.

“Harry? You alright?” There was no reply, so he stepped back, frowning. Louis turned and ducked into Harry’s bedroom, three doors down the hall. The first thing that caught his attention was the neatly made bed and the shoebox that sat on top of it, next to a blinking cell phone. He picked up the shoebox first, knocking the lid off. His breath caught at the row of neatly addressed envelopes.

He turned his attention to the phone and the slick red liquid that coated the keypad.

Was that…blood?

Louis turned and ran back to the bathroom, trying the handle. It turned easily in his grasp. He braced himself, praying he wasn’t about to see what he thought he would.

The door swung open, revealing a very still Harry in a bloodstained, soaking wet sweatshirt and jeans, curled up on the floor. Three pill bottles lay discarded on the floor beside him.

Louis screamed, dropping to his knees.

His CPR training from school kicked in and he lifted Harry’s wrist, checking for a pulse. It was faint and unsteady, but there. He gripped Harry’s shoulders, shaking him slightly.

“No, please, no, Harry!”

Harry’s lips moved soundlessly before his face slackened entirely. Louis scrabbled in his back pocket for his phone, mindless of the blood that had seeped onto his fingers.

He didn’t realize he was in hysterics until the emergency operator told him to calm down. He took several deep breaths and answered her questions as quickly as possible, short sobs escaping as he did so.

Once the paramedics had arrived and whisked Harry away, he phoned Liam and then Niall. Both were difficult phone calls, trying to explain what had happened.

Liam arrived and helped Louis to his car. They drove to the hospital, Louis trying to contact Harry’s mother unsuccessfully. At their destination, Louis hurried into the building while Liam parked.

“I’m here for Harry Styles,” he said breathlessly. “He came in half an hour ago. I’m Louis Tomlinson, I should be listed as his emergency contact.”

Liam came running in as the nurse typed in Harry’s file.

“I’m sorry, but you’re no longer listed as Mr Styles’ emergency contact.”

Liam leaned forward. “Try me. Liam Payne.”

The nurse shook her head. “Mr Styles’ emergency contacts are Gemma Styles and Anne Cox.”

“That’s his mother and sister,” Liam explained. “But they’re at a tech-free thing for the next week. There’s no way to contact them.”

The nurse shrugged. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Liam carefully pulled a protesting Louis over to a pair of empty chairs and began making phone calls.

Three hours later, they were kicked out and told to leave. A more sympathetic nurse told Louis she would inform them if anything changed before pushing the two boys out the door.

Liam drove them straight to Simon Cowell’s offices.

Niall and Zayn met them outside. The four young men stood in silence, staring at each other. Niall’s eyes were tear reddened; Zayn’s were hidden behind sunglasses; Louis’s were filled with pain and Liam’s seemed so, so old.

“What are we going to do?” Niall whispered, finally breaking the silence.

“The best we can.” Liam said quietly. “Pray.”

Chapter Text

I stood in front of the mailbox and looked down at the package.

I’d only had it for eighteen hours, and it had already changed my life.

But it’s not the same as it was, eighteen hours ago. The package isn't the same, my life isn't the same, and the world isn't the same.

Now, the package is labeled with another name, a very fake name that will lead to a very real person. And that very real person is about to have their world turned upside down, just like mine was.

I drop it in.                             

Nothing left to do but follow through.

…

When I got it, the package looked innocent enough.  It was wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine and sealed quite thoroughly with tape.

It was addressed in a neat block print I didn’t quite recognize—vaguely familiar, but not enough that it triggered any memories. But it was addressed to the fake name I used for personal mail, everything exactingly correct, right down to the right PO box.  Once I tore off the wrapping, I found another wrapper, with my real name on it.

Inside was a plain black shoebox, and inside that was a roll of bubble wrap, with seven loose cassette tapes and a walkman, minus the headphones. The tapes are white plastic, numbered in the top corners with what looks like red sharpie.

I check the wrapper—no return address. I can't really think of anyone who'd send me cassette tapes. Maybe Mum, sending me tapes of my little sisters singing or performing or some such thing. It's happened before. Maybe she found old tapes of me singing in the kitchen; it's been known to happen before.

I settle into the kitchen, with a mug of tea and the tapes. I put the walkman down on the table, pop the first tape in and press play.

Hello, boys and girls. Harry Styles here. Live and in stereo.

The mug in my hands slips and crashes onto the tile floor, splintering into a million pieces amidst a puddle of steaming liquid, but I don’t even notice. This is impossible. I can’t believe it—I won’t believe it.

No return engagements. No encore. And this time, absolutely no requests.

I can’t believe this. Because Harry Styles killed himself, two weeks ago, swallowed a bottle of pills, slit his wrists, and never woke up.

This has to be someone’s idea of a bad joke. There isn't another option; it has to be.

I hope you’re ready, because I’m about to tell you the story of my life. More specifically, I'm about to tell you why my life ended. And if you’re listening to these tapes, you’re one of the reasons why.

I pause the tape. What? No, that can’t be. Harry would have told me if he was feeling that upset about me. And besides, Harry was no good at telling stories. He wouldn't really. But…what if? It sounded like him. I press play.

I’m not staying which tape brings you into the story. But fear not, if you received this lovely little box, your name will pop up…I promise. Now, why would a dead boy lie?

Hey! That sounds like a joke. Why would a dead boy lie? Answer: because he can’t stand up.

Despite the horrific nature of the joke—and the context in which I’m hearing it—I snort in laughter before clapping my hands over my mouth. Harry’s dead and I’m here laughing at a joke he told weeks ago.

God, this must be some kind of sick, twisted joke, by a tabloid or something. They must have hired a voice actor and just went ahead and did it to get a reaction out of me.

But still, morbid curiosity makes me continue listening.

Go ahead. Laugh.

Oh well. I thought it was funny.

I know some of you don’t believe it’s me. Well, all of you probably won’t. And here’s what you’ll need to confirm it really is me.

I, Harry Edward Styles, am bisexual. I have had exactly two girlfriends, one semi-boyfriend, and two fuck-buddies. Does that prove anything to you?

Harry had come out to us four and then Simon Cowell. He admitted one of his exes knew, as did his boyfriend, but no one else. Not even the PR reps knew.

It had to be Harry.

Oh, did you hear that? ‘Am’. Can’t use that anymore, can I?

Sorry. Moving on.

The rules are pretty simple. There are only two, so make sure you remember them. Rule number one: you listen. Number two: you pass it on. Hopefully neither one will be easy for you.

When you’re all done listening to all thirteen sides—because there are thirteen sides to every story, of course—rewind the tapes, put them back in the box, and pass them on to whoever follows your little tale. And you, lucky number thirteen, can take the tapes straight to hell. Depending on your religion, maybe I’ll see you there. Knowing you, I probably will.

In case you’re tempted to break the rules, understand that I did make a copy of these tapes. Those copies will be released in a very public manner if this package doesn’t make it through all of you. And knowing the rather…shall we say celebrity nature of the careers of most people on this list, I’d say you wouldn’t want that.

I’m not the only celebrity he sent this to? Who else was on the list? Not the other boys, surely. But then…who else?

This was not a spur-of-the-moment decision.

Do not take me for granted…again.

You are being watched.

I feel like I’m going to hurl. Harry wouldn’t be that cruel, would he? We’d lived together for over three years. I’d like to think I knew him well enough to say he wouldn’t actually have us watched, but then again, I lived with him and I had no clue he was suicidal.

I check the wrapper again—there’s no return address anywhere to be found. No clue to who might have sent it to me. No clue as to who might be watching me.

And oh, I almost forgot. If you’re on my list, you should have received a map. Throughout the tapes, I’ll be mentioning several spots in this lovely city I’ve come to call home. I can’t force you to visit—and some of you are too far away to visit anyways—but if you’d like a little more insight, just head for the stars. Or, if you’d like, just throw the maps away, and I’ll never know.

I had gotten a map. In Harry’s room, he’d left a box full of envelopes—letters, we’d guessed. There hadn’t been anything in mine except a map, and a short note in some sort of code I couldn’t decipher. The others had all gotten the same, except their codes were slightly different in length and in pattern.

This really was Harry.

Or maybe I will. I’m not actually sure how this whole dead thing works. Who knows, maybe I’m standing right behind you right now.

I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair.

But this story needs to begin, and every story must begin at where else? The beginning.

Ready, Miss Hadley?

I paused the tape there.

Jenna Hadley? Did I know a Jenna Hadley? Did any of us know a Jenna Hadley?

I got up and searched for my laptop, finally locating it underneath my bed. I hadn’t exactly been online much in the weeks since Harry’s death—too much to do, sorting out his things from mine for his Mum, the memorial, interviews about how we were still going strong as a band, that kind of thing.

I hadn’t even really had time to grieve.

I sweep up the broken mug as I wait for the computer to boot up and pour a new mug of tea as it logs on. Unfortunately, this busy work doesn’t keep me from thinking, from wondering what exactly was going through Hazza’s head as he recorded these tapes and then ended his life. I couldn’t figure out why—and to be honest, that question had been haunting me for the past two weeks.

Finally, the laptop chimes, letting me know it was ready to go.

I open google and type in the name. Jenna Hadley. 1,350,000 results.

The first was a facebook page, which was, predictably, locked.

The second one was a twitter, belonging to a girl named Jennifer Hadley, who was born in Holmes Chapel and was currently spending her gap year working as a teacher’s assistant in a German kindergarten.

She had a search bar, and I so I type in Harry’s name—and sure enough, a result pops up. They’re backdated—newest first and I scroll back.

RIP, @harry_styles. We all miss you. What happened, sweetheart?

Got an email from @harry_styles today, seems like the fucker's doing well.

Congrats @harry_styles! You and @onedirection are going to do fantastically! Voting for you! Oh god, I’ve turned into the platonic ex-girlfriend.

@harry_styles and I broke up…not sure if I should laugh or cry. I did, after all, dump him.

Stuff is weird between me and @harry_styles.

We’ve been dating for two weeks now…@harry_styles still as cheeky and funny and sweet as ever.

Boys are weird. Especially @harry_styles.

So Jenna Hadley was one of Harry’s first girlfriends. And obviously there had been something going on that caused her to dump him but still stay his friend. So why was she on Harry’s list of thirteen reasons why?

Only one way to find out. Bracing myself, I hit play.

Jenna Hadley.

Jenna, you were my first kiss. Not that you ever knew that—at school, I always came across as the charming ladies man, the kind who would’ve had his first kiss at ten.

You don’t know this, but four years ago, when I first asked you out, you were the first person I’d ever asked out.  You don’t know this, but I had a crush on you for about a year beforehand—I even went to the trouble of figuring out your schedule through friends and classmates and I had a copy of it somewhere, so I could be by your classroom to talk to you.

I never worked up the courage to actually talk to you, though. Not until that day I asked you out.

You people listening to this, you’re probably wondering, what does Harry’s first girlfriend have to do with anything?

Well, like I said: every story has to start at the beginning. And this? This is where everything actually starts.

But this was years ago, with a girl you’ve never mentioned, even in passing. How could something that happened so long ago have caused you to take your life, especially when circumstances were so different

When you reach the end of these tapes, Jenna, I hope you’ll understand your role in all of this. Because it may seem like a small role now, but a butterfly flaps its wings and a hurricane starts. It seems like a small thing, but it matters. In the end, everything matters.

I know you didn’t mean to let me down. In fact, most of you listening probably had no idea what you were doing—how the things you did affected everyone else.

So what did I do, Harry? Where am I on this list? Because I have no clue. That night, if what I’m thinking of is what you’re thinking of, was just as strange for me as it could have been for you. Maybe moreso because I still have no clue what the hell happened, whereas Harry obviously knew and understood. Am I lucky number thirteen?

I know you’re in Germany now, Jenna, so I can’t ask you to go to any of the places on the map. I can’t ask you to go down to the river. I’d never ask that of you, anyways. It’d hurt you more than it could ever hurt me.

Anyone else, if you want to feel like you’re part of this, grab a coat and head down to the nearest park. Find a bench. Close your eyes. And just listen. You’ll be right in the thick of it.

I pause the walkman there and pull off the headphones, letting them settle onto the kitchen counter next to my mug.

I don’t want to be in this apartment right now, not in the place where Harry lived and died. I don't want to have to hear these stories in a place I have to live, and remember.

Going for a walk sounds good, actually. It’s strange, hearing Harry talk, hearing his voice again after forcing myself to accept that the only way I was going to hear anything from him ever again was when he sang.

And of course, learning why is something else entirely. There hadn’t been a suicide letter, just the box of maps. We, as a band, had all decided we just weren’t going to know—that Harry hadn’t wanted us to know why.

I guess now we know why there wasn’t a letter.

While these thoughts race through my head, I pull on a coat and gloves. I pause before tugging on Harry’s old knit cap, the one I continuously borrowed until it was as much mine as his.

Back in the kitchen, I slide the headphones around my neck and tuck the remaining tapes into my pockets.

I lock the door behind me and start down the stairs, rather than using the elevator. As I get to the landing below my floor, I press play.

I feel I should warn you. This is not a love story. This is a story about love, but it is not a love story in and of itself. Not just this story, the Jenna story, but my entire story.

Anyway, this particular story begins when I was fifteen. Barely so.

For those of you who don’t know, Jenna Hadley was one of the most popular girls in the year. She was smart, funny, and more importantly, everyone knew she had an upperclassman boyfriend. I’d had a crush on her forever, and so when she finally broke up with him, I jumped at the chance. Sorry for digging up old history, Jenna, but no one but you and I know this story.

And it’s oh so important.

Jenna, you remember this—when I was younger, I stuttered when I got nervous.

I knew that. When we first met, Harry had chattered rapidly, stuttering over a few simple words. Not noticeable if you weren’t listening for it—problem was, we all were. Liam and Niall had exchanged worried glances but never said anything. That was probably a good thing, because as we grew more and more comfortable with each other as a group, the stutter disappeared entirely. It had only resurfaced twice since then, before our first awards show and then That Night.

So I spent two weeks practicing asking you out, until I didn’t stutter, and I could probably ask for someone’s phone number in my sleep.

I walked up to you after your maths class, and said hello. You smiled, twirled your hair on your finger. I asked for your number, and you wrote it on my hand in red sharpie, with a little heart at the end. Then I walked you to our shared English class and called you that evening.

Your mother answered the phone. She wanted to know why I was calling. I said my name was Harry Styles and I was calling to ask her daughter out. She laughed and passed you the phone—you were absolutely mortified, but you agreed to a date. We made plans to go to Chapel Park that Saturday.

I’m outside now, on the sidewalk. People are bustling by, not knowing what I’m listening to, and it almost strikes me as funny. Harry was smart—a suicide letter would be found and published. But these tapes? No one would suspect.

The nearest park is four blocks away, so I turn and begin walking towards it.

Come Saturday, I went to your house and met your parents, your little brother.

We went to the park and walked. I got brave enough to grab your hand—and you laced your fingers with mine. We talked and laughed and went into the zoo where all the little kids went on weekends. We spent a good twenty minutes in those stupid photobooths, making silly faces at the camera.

You pulled me over to the penguins, then leaned over and kissed me. You didn’t know it was my first kiss—you’re only learning this now. But it was long and slow and you tasted like the popcorn we shared. And the next day at school, I heard people talking. What did they say? That I’d felt you up and we’d almost been caught in the bathroom at the zoo.

If you’re from Holmes Chapel—yes, there are at least two of you on this list—I know you know this rumor.

I pretended it didn’t bother me, and I never confirmed or denied the rumors. But you, Jenna, you encouraged them.

Friday night, we went to the river. There are four people on this list who’ve been to the river. Only one of you know this story. The rest of you will find out…now.

If Harry was talking about what I thought he was, there was a river near his house. The bank had a pile of ashes where local kids held bonfires, a rope swing, and a picnic table. Harry had admitted it was a popular make out spot.

Why was he bringing this up? What had happened there?

Jenna, you came to my house this time. You knocked on the door and my mum answered, asked what you were doing. Then she came upstairs and I told her you were my partner for a class. She asked which one, and I said biology. We were going to catch bugs—extra credit, you know.

Mum smiled and said you had said the exact same thing.  I think she saw through it, but she let us go anyway. So we left and went down to the river. There were people there, building a bonfire. We hung out for awhile, you and I and everyone else there. Tammy Davies made an absolute fool of herself, but no one really cared—we were all too tipsy to bother.

And then we snuck off, into the darkness down the shore. Jenna, you know what happened after this. But everyone else, what are you thinking right now? Go on, say it.

Slut.

No, Harry. I never thought that.

But then again, I never heard this story either.

I’ve only been dating this girl for a week, and we sneak off, somewhat drunk, at a bonfire and vanish into the shadows. You’re thinking it, I know you are. You thought, “Harry Styles is a slut.”

Whoops. Is. Can’t use that anymore, can I?

But you thought it, didn’t you? You thought Jenna and I sneaked off to have sex. And there’s a reason behind it, too. My reputation precedes me. But no one told you my reputation was a series of well thought out lies.

Harry Styles is not, and never was, a slut. Which begs the question: what have you heard?

You heard I was someone who would sleep with anyone who spread their legs, and you believed it.

What really happened? Jenna and I talked. That’s all. What else would we have done?

Jenna, you were honest with me, brutally so. You told me you were lesbian and only dating me as a cover. My first kiss was with a lesbian who wasn’t interested in me at all. Go figure. Not that there's anything wrong with being lesbian. It just...wasn't the first kiss I wanted.

I snort a little with laughter. Even as he wrote a suicide letter, Harry didn't want to offend anyone. That was Harry right to the bone.

Jenna, that’s not the reason I committed suicide. But it set in motion my confusion about my own sexuality. And then we talked even more—about what we were going to do and the conversation strayed to what we liked to do, and our favorite types of music.

And then you made a suggestion that changed everything.

“I think you should try out for the X-Factor. I’m sure you’d get in.”

Round of applause, boys and girls. That right there is the reason I am where I am today. Jennifer Hadley and an off- the-cuff remark. She wheels in motion that led us to today.

That wasn’t what you’d told us. Was this the reason Jenna was on these tapes? Her suggestion?

You know, that’s not even the ending of this story. I was okay with you liking girls. I was okay with being your cover until you were ready to come out because you were my friend. I was even okay with you telling everyone I fucked you.

But I was not okay with what you did after. You know exactly what I mean.

After you dumped me, you told a few of the other closeted kids that I’d helped you out as a cover. And they came and asked me—and I said yes.

Have you ever seen the movie Easy A? Surprising how much that movie reflected my life. Just change Olive to Harry and you might have a pretty accurate representation of my secondary schooling experience. Except mine didn’t have quite the same ending. I got famous, whereas Olive got the guy. And this time, no one ever learned the truth.

Until now.

So yes, I have a reputation for sleeping with people.

Did I actually? No, absolutely not. Did I get fed up of people asking me if I really was that much of a slut? Of course I did. Was I pissed off when that reputation bled into everything else I ever did? Yes. And I’m sorry, but that just contributed to everything else wrong. Did I ever try to fix any of this? No. The damage was already done.

So to recap, the tape isn’t about why you did what you did. It’s not even to blame you for anything you said or were born to be. It’s about the shockwaves that travelled out from the epicenter of your suggestion. More specifically, it’s about the repercussions to me. It’s about those things you didn’t plan—those things you couldn’t plan.

I just looked over my list, and guess what? Every name, every story, on these tapes, winds back to you. Every single event documented here may never have happened had you not done what you did.

Jenna, your part in my story ends here.  But remember, you were the beginning. I put a letter in with these tapes, and there’s a name and address in code at the bottom. Remember the deadman’s code everyone learned as kids?

That’s what it is. Decode it, send it to the proper address and the proper name, and you’re done.

Will Sweeney. You’re up next.

End of Tape One.

I let the tape whir into silence.

Finally, I reach the park. There are kids playing, despite the cold and inch or two of dirty snow everywhere. Or maybe that’s the reason they’re playing, because they have snow to play with, rather than rain.

The past three blocks, I’ve been walking slowly, just listening to Harry talk. People have been rushing right past me, not noticing either my famous face or the outdated technology I’m using.

Harry was right—Jenna’s story did seem to be important. If she was the start of Harry’s downward spiral, this was a long time coming. But if that was only the beginning of everything that went wrong, why didn’t someone notice? Why didn’t I notice that something was wrong? I lived with him; if anyone was to notice anything, it should have been me.

And I hadn’t.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and so I turn, looping the headphones around my neck and pasting on a smile.

Three teenage girls stand there, huge grins spread across their faces.

“Hi, are you Louis Tomlinson?” the tallest of the three squeals, beaming and bouncing on the balls of her feet. It’s amazing how excited fans get when coming across us—any of us—in public.

“Yeah I am, love. Can I help you?”

“Can we get an autograph?” I obligingly sign several slips of paper and pose for a few photographs. I almost automatically turn to the empty space where Harry would be if he was here, before realizing he hasn’t been here and I’ve only been with his voice on a set of audiocassette tapes.

“As if she can read my mind, the shortest of the trio speaks up. “I’m sorry about Harry. Everyone’s going to miss him.”

“Yeah, he was hot,” one of her friends snickers, and is immediately elbowed. I still feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut. “Sorry.”

Not much later, the girls depart. I sit on an empty bench and pop the yellow compartment open to flip the tape over, inserting side B. I hesitate before starting the recording, though. Pressing play the first time was easy. I didn’t know what was coming.

But now? I can only expect the worst.

Steeling myself, I hit play. For a second, I think something is wrong with the tapes because there is nothing but silence. And then suddenly, Harry’s voice.

If you’re in a park, like I asked you to be, you probably see children playing, laughing, running around carefree.

That’s where Will and I begin, as little kids. We were next-door neighbors, and as children of similar ages living nearby tend to do, we spent quite a lot of time together. And we became friends through—of all things—a book club at the library.

If you look on your maps, square 8J is marked. Go there—or your nearest library. Go sit at one of the study tables every library has and just…listen. I’ll still be here. Maybe.

Sorry. I’m being cruel.

There’s a library a few blocks from here. I check the map—and yep, it’s highlighted.

I start walking in that direction, but this time, I don’t plug in the headphones. I just think.

Why am I listening to this? I mean, why put myself through this? Why not just pop the tape out of the walkman and chuck the entire set into the nearest rubbish bin? Why force myself to listen to the voice of someone who meant so much to me and is forever gone from my life? I rightfully should.

I swallow hard and dash away the beginnings of tears.

In the end though…I’m not going to chuck them. I know I’m not, because it’s Harry’s voice, a voice I thought I’d never hear again. I can’t throw that away, and I can’t let his last words go unsaid—not to me, at least.

And the rules. He said he made a copy of the tapes. But what if he didn’t? Maybe if the tapes stop—if I just don’t pass them on, that’s it. Nothing happens. Game over—I called his bluff.

But what if he wasn’t bluffing? What if there really was a set of tapes out there? All that person would have to do is post that box to E!news or Sugarscape, and that would be it. Harry Style’s suicide tapes and the dark, dirty secrets of whoever happens to be on them would be released to the entire world as tabloid fodder. I wouldn’t be ruining just my own life—there are twelve other people on here.

That’s a decision I can’t make.

I wish I’d never seen the box, or the seven tapes inside.

I just want to think clearly and understand why Harry would do this—and that feels impossible, given the circumstances.

I’ve reached the library, a concrete building that from the outside looks like it should house some sort of dot com company rather than a collection of literature. But inside, it’s warm and well lit, and thankfully, not too crowded. I climb two sets of stairs to the classical literature section and there is no one there except a couple of college students. It’s easy enough to find an abandoned table in the corner.

When I press play, there’s nothing but silence for a solid twenty seconds, where all I can hear is the static of the tape, the hum of the headphones and steady breaths, either from me or from the tape. Harry’s voice finally comes in as a whisper, barely audible above the static.

Shh, if you’re in a library.

Shh, if you’re backstage.

And sometimes, shh…if you’re all alone.

If you had to guess, what would you think my favorite thing to read was? Go ahead—guess. Who’s my favorite author?

Harry never read that much that I saw. If anything, he liked thriller novels, grisly crime books that made me flinch. I remember him reading the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo on a particularly long flight once and later dragging me to see the movie—which was, admittedly, a very good movie.

I beat none of you guessed Keats.

Keats?

You’re thinking, “yeah, right. He’s just saying that to sound suave and cool and intelligent. Pompous arse, I know his reputation.”

What did I tell you about my reputation? Besides, I’m a dead man walking. What does anyone’s opinion matter to me?

Shit, Harry. You can’t just say things like that.

No, my favorite author is Keats. There’s just something…amazing about a love poem from someone who knows he’s going to die and carries on anyways for his love. Yeah, I’m a sap. Whatever. But listen to this:

“Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme
To take into the air my quiet breath
Now more than ever seems it rich to die
To cease upon the midnight with no pain
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!…”

That’s from Ode to a Nightingale. Keats wrote it when he was twenty-four. He started writing when he was nineteen.

I pause the tape and stand, moving into the stacks. On the K shelves, there are several volumes of Keats poetry and so I pick the thickest volume, a heavy leather bound book titled The Complete Works of John Keats (With Annotated Bibliography). Ode to a Nightingale is listed as being on page 83—and sure enough, there’s the verse Harry recited.

I skim the rest of the poem and find it’s decidedly happier than what Harry made it sound like. I take the book with me and sit back down at my table. One of the college students is giving me a weird look, but once she sees me with the thick volume of Keats poetry and the battered yellow walkman, she shakes her head and looks away.

I almost laugh—no one expects a celebrity to be in a public library, of all places, with a research book and outdated technology. I continue flipping through the pages as Harry speaks again.

But me? I’ve been writing poetry since I was thirteen. Stupid, cheesy things, but that’s what makes me a pretty decent lyricist. Although most of you wouldn’t know that, since I refuse to write anymore. I do miss it, though.

Poetry is magical. The more abstract it is, the better. You don’t know what the author really meant—there are a dozen meanings in every poem ever written. A single word could mean twenty different things, and all of them could be true. They’re puzzles, with infinite pieces and possibilities. You can have any emotion expressed in a handful of words. Honestly, there’s no better way to explore your emotions than through poetry.

Bridget, no one knows this better than you. After all, you did steal my poetry notebook and published the poem I wrote the very first time I considered killing myself.

How long were you like this, Harry? And why didn’t any of us notice?

Most of you probably haven’t heard this poem—it stayed in Holmes Chapel mainly—but everyone in town certainly knew it and had an opinion about it. Everyone wondered who wrote it and why, but I never admitted it was mine. So, for your listening pleasure, the one and only time Harry Styles reads his poem: No Such Thing.

No such thing as happy endings
No such thing as once upon a time
Just a thousand thousand lies
A million times I’ve lied, “I’m fine.”

I swear to you this is new
I swear I never meant goodbye
I could tell you I want to stay
But any words I speak are lies

I’m slowly slipping away
Into the deep inviting black
Time makes no sense anymore
It’s not worth it to look back

I blame you now for the words I now think
Thoughts I never thought before
Words I desperately want to say
Music I can’t hear anymore

This has been a long time coming
I knew it would happen because
Sometimes I think it would be better if
I simply never was.

Not much, I know. But it was a huge deal in Holmes Chapel. What did our teacher say, Will? Oh right—it’s like analyzing a poem by a dead poet because we can’t ask either what they meant. Classes dissected it, tore my poem right to pieces looking for new meanings, and they found meanings I never realized were there. They found meanings that scared me half to death and a little beyond.

“But Harry, that’s not so bad,” you say. “it was published anonymously. No one ever knew it was you!”

Exactly my point. That poem is the poem I wrote the first day I felt hopeless, helpless. I was fifteen.

It’s been four years. Four years where you knew exactly how sad I was becoming. Four years where you knew exactly how much I was struggling to keep a smile on my face. Because I was stupid enough to keep showing you my poems—naïve enough to believe you  hadn’t really betrayed me like that. Naive enough to let you use my writing to blackmail me into joining White Eskimo; naive enough to let you take credit for my work.

After No Such THing was published, I stopped writing. Sometimes, I’d find myself reaching for my poetry notebook and force myself to pick up my math textbook instead. Sometimes, I’d read Keats over and over until I had entire poems memorized—Ode to a Nightingale being one of them.

Looking back, I stopped writing ini my notebook when I stopped wanting to know myself anymore. If you hear a song that makes you want to cry, and you don’t want to cry anymore, you don’t listen to that song anymore. But you can’t get away from yourself. You can’t decide not to see yourself, or listen to you thoughts, especially when people are discussing them in the open and cutting them to pieces. You can’t decide to turn off the thoughts in your head.  I stopped writing poetry because I needed a break…from myself.

So maybe that’s why, my first night with One Direction as a band, I picked up a new notebook and began writing again. I tore the first one I wrote out, folded it up and posted it to you without a return address or even a name. I think you knew who it was from though, because I got a letter back via my mother within a week.

I think I remember that—there was a convenience store three blocks away from the house where we were staying, and Harry and I had gone out for a walk. We’d returned with a variety of snacks, a pack of plain black pens and a composition notebook. And then an envelope and a few stamps.

I’d given him a weird look when we checked out and then promptly forgotten about it. That was the last time either of us—any of us—were able to go out without taking precautions against being recognized.

A week letter, at mail call, Harry had gotten a letter that had made him pale. That must have been Will's reply.

Have you ever thought about what a reputation entails, Will? What kinds of things someone is and isn’t allowed to do because of their reputation? What kinds of rumors and comments come with being pegged as a slut?

Of course you know, you read my poems. You saw as they grew progressively darker and darker and darker.

And you saw the first scars.

Scars? What scars?

Oh, surprised, are we? You heard that right—you can rewind, if you’d like to double check.

Harry Edward Styles self-harmed. Sometimes it was a razor blade. Other times it was a lighter. But Will, you saw every. single. scar. And what did you do?

You said nothing.

Amazing how no one else ever noticed how many scars I had, considering the fact that I walked around without clothes for a rather large percentage of time. But a good scar cream’ll do that for you, I suppose. Either that or no one saw because they didn’t want to see.

I have to admit, I never saw any scars, and if anyone was to notice anything, it would have been me. How could I have not noticed something so obvious when we lived together, often slept in the same bed and easily changed in the same room?

Well—I had noticed something wrong, the night of the party. But by the time I got enough courage to ask him about it, Harry had swallowed a bottle of pills and everything was over.

But then again, I wasn’t exactly looking for them, was I?

Will, I’d really love to know if you managed to drag yourself to my funeral.

No.

Or if you were too scared of my friends and family to even show up. I wonder if scar tissue is more visible after death, and I wonder if you saw every little mark.

He didn’t go to your funeral, Harry, because…

I wonder.

…because, well. There’s wasn’t one.

Will, if you open the book I left you, you’ll find a name and address written on page 372—send the tapes there.

Fast forward two years, ladies and gentlemen.

You’ll never guess who’s up to bat this time.

End of Tape Two.

There hadn’t been a funeral.

As a matter of fact, there hadn’t been a body. Or…well, there’d been part of one.

The night Harry died I was out on a boys night out with Zayn and Niall. Liam had a date with Danielle; Harry claimed he was feeling slightly ill and was going to turn in early, possibly spending time watching Lord of the Rings again. He’d been acting a bit off the past through days, so none of us questioned it. As a matter of fact, I heated up some soup for him, tucked him in on the couch and gave him a kiss on the forehead as I left the room.

It was my turn to drive that night and we had a fairly large interview scheduled for the next morning, so I didn’t drink much, although that didn’t stop Zayn and Niall. They were both spectacularly smashed so I helped both of them into their apartments and tucked them in.

When I got back to Harry’s and my flat, the TV was on but muted, and Harry was nowhere to be found. I settled down and flicked the channel over to watch Doctor Who. It wasn’t until ten minutes later that I heard a faint moan from the bathroom and went to investigate.  I found Harry, unconscious, next to two empty bottles of sleeping pills and one half-empty bottle of anti-depressants.

I immediately called 999. I don’t remember the phone call, but I think I was screaming and crying and being a hysterical mess. I was told to calm down and explain what happened.

Things happened far too quickly after that. An ambulance arrived and took Harry away, but as I wasn’t kin, I couldn’t ride with him. I phoned Liam, who immediately left Danielle’s house to meet me at the hospital. I called Niall while Liam phoned Zayn—we all agreed they weren’t sober enough to drive but they’d meet us there as soon as they could.

The ride there was nothing like you see in the movies. It was thirty minutes of silent realization that Harry really would do this, and thirty minutes of Liam and I trying to figure out why he might do this.

 At the hospital, we found out I was no longer listed as Harry’s emergency contact, but that he’d changed it the day before to his older sister, Gemma—who was unreachable, due to the fact that she was at a technology free retreat for the next three days—and his secondary was his mother, who was at the retreat with Gemma.

Three hours after our arrival, they kicked Liam and I out of the waiting area and told us they’d call when the situation changed. We never got a phone call. Instead, Simon called us into his office and informed us we were now a quartet, and the news the next morning announced Harry’s death.

And that was that.

Harry’s family never released a public statement, so there was a memorial service, not a funeral, and life went on. We One Direction boys were given two weeks off to regroup and then we were going to start an intensive round of retraining to fill the gaps in our songs and choreography. We’d started up last week, and no, it hadn’t gotten easier yet to acknowledge one of us was gone because he’d taken his own life. We hadn’t even talked about it—no one wanted to bring it up.

And now here I was, sitting in a park full of kids, listening to my best friend’s suicide tapes.

Life likes throwing curveballs, doesn’t it?

Bracing myself, I press play.

We’re going to do this step by step, line by line, until every story has been told. You’ve made it to Tape 2, side A. It only gets better—or, depending on your perspective, worse—from here on out.

I have a question for you: Would you want the ability to hear other people’s thoughts?

Of course you would. Everyone answers yes to that question until they think it all the way through. Would you really want someone to hear your thoughts? To hear what you’re thinking…right now? What would I hear, if I could think what you’re thinking? Would you want me to hear?

You’d hear confusion and the words of a dead boy. Some anger and a lot of hurt.

People have thoughts for a reason—to figure out what’s right, what’s wrong and what’s not right. And they have thoughts…to keep secrets.

Lucky number three, I know quite a few of yours. Whose fault is that? I don’t know. Maybe I’m perceptive. Maybe you’re on open book. Or maybe…you told me yourself.

Is this my tape?

There’s something magical about sharing secrets. An understanding that you are trusted enough to carry knowledge that no one else is.

I guess, in a way, this is me helping someone out. One last good deed before I’m officially gone. A way for me to save someone who is still within reach of saving.

Before I say who—although I suspect you already know—those of you who are able, go to square B6 on your maps. Go inside, sit down, order a milkshake for me. If you don’t know what to order, you can’t go wrong with peanut butter and chocolate.

That’s right, you’re going to Milkshake City.

And when you’re done, go sit on the bench outside and press play.

I check my watch—it’s nearly seven. Milkshake City will be open for another two hours.

Still carrying the Keats, I descend the stairs and check it out at the front desk. It’ll give me something to read on the way.

The bus pulls to a stop outside the library just as I exit, so I run to catch it. The bus drivers huffs in annoyance as I dig in my pockets for my buss pass. People are always surprised I have one, what with being an international superstar, but it made things easier. Harry and I snuck out often enough that bus passes just became the easiest method. Finally, I find it and show her; she waves me towards the back of the bus.

I make my way down the center aisle, buttoning my coat up against the chill. It’s not really that cold, but I don’t want to meet anyone’s eyes or give the impression that I’m anything but ordinary.

There’s an empty seat in the back—or, more accurately, an empty row that, so long as no one else sits down, I’ll have all to myself. I slide over to the window and press my forehead to the glass, thinking about the last time I made this trip.

Harry and I snuck out a lot to do quote-unquote “normal” things. We’d made this exact trip four times in the last month of his life—was I the reason Harry was asking us to go there? The last time was right after Harry had come home with his newly cropped hair—after the party. People hadn’t caught wind of his changed appearance yet, so he was able to slide on a pair of fake glasses and simply walk out the door, with no one the wiser. He did get a lot of comments about how I looked a lot like Louis Tomlinson—I know, because I helped him fend off a few.

He seemed like the old Harry. Happier, lighter, and cheekier than he’d been in months. I just figured whatever had been bothering him had gone away and he was better. I was glad about it.

When we got to Milkshake City, I stood in the long queue to get our milkshakes while Harry waited outside on a bench.

We’d talked about stupid, silly things then. I teased him about his hair; he fired back with comments about my exes. He kept fiddling with his phone, and I thought he was waiting on a call from a girl. He informed me he was waiting for his mum to call, in an entirely prissy tone of voice. We burst out laughing and didn’t stop for another twenty minutes before returning home.

The bus stops—People pile off but only a few get on, so I keep my row to myself—and starts again. Five minutes more and I’ll be there.

When I get off the bus, I avoid people’s looks and walk the half block to Milkshake City.

The line’s not long, due to the chilly weather. With my hat on and the fake wire-rimmed glasses management insists I carry, no one even recognizes me, despite my photograph on the wall.

I order peanut butter and chocolate, as per Harry’s request and sit down outside.

Steeling myself, I press play.

Have you finished your milkshake yet? Are you watching as people bustle by entirely unknowing of what you’re listening to?

Are you sitting on the bench directly opposite Milkshake City? Because that’s where I am. My hood is up and I’m holding the tape recorder like a phone. No one is even giving me a second glance.

My skin crawls when Harry mentionis the bench. He’d been on the phone while I was inside getting the milkshakes, last time—was this what he was really doing?

Maybe this really was my tape. Harry certainly new enough of my secrets, although I couldn’t think how any of them could have made him so depressed.

You’re probably wondering why I asked you to go to Milkshake City. You especially, number three. You’re antsy, you know exactly why you’re there and you’re praying I’m not really going to do this—you’re praying you’re on a later tape.

Oh really? Would a later tape make this better? I can promise you, the later tapes are all worse.

You’re at Milkshake City because this is where I found out the biggest secret of one of my friends. I found out Niall Horan…

Harry inhales, as if steeling himself, and automatically I stiffen.

Niall? What could Niall ever have done to wind up on these tapes? And what kind of secret could Niall possibly have? He was an open book.

These tapes were creating far, far more questions than answers.

…is bulimic.

Bulimic. There’s no way—one of us would have noticed by now. That can’t be possible…except…well, it makes  a morbid sort of sense. Incidents click into place in my mind, things that hadn’t quite been right.

Bulimia is one of those words, the ones our culture doesn’t like to acknowledge. What are a few others? Oh, you know, anorexia, depression, suicide, self harm. Things our culture forces on us and then denies even exists. No one wants to hear about them.

Niall, you are one of my best friends. But why me, out of all people? Why tell me your secret? Why would you expect I could help you more than management, or Zayn or Liam or Louis? Why would you tell me you forced yourself to throw up after almost every meal…and then swear me to secrecy?

To be clear, I never broke that promise until today. I don’t think I still have, actually. I won’t have told anyone until Jenna opens this package.

And by then I’ll be dead, so it won’t matter.

Harry mentioning his own death still makes me flinch. It reminds me that he really isgone and this isn’t some kind of practical joke.

Niall, you out of everyone would understand the most. I told you about my cutting and we agreed—I’d help you with your bulimia and you’d help me with my self-harm. We were going to get better.

I think you all remember a time, late 2011, early 2012, where Niall and I suddenly got a lot closer. There were a lot of theories from the fans, but the real reason?

We were trying to help each other. It’s hard to sneak off and do yourself harm when there’s someone looking out for you 24/7, reassuring you that it’s all right and you don’t need to do what you were going to do. Not that it really worked—by March, we were too busy to help checking for each other, and not brave enough to tell management. Or any of the other boys, for that matter.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. When I turn, it’s Niall.

Does he know I’m listening to his story? Probably, I haven’t come up yet—Niall’s already had these tapes. And he chose to send them on…so how bad is everything else on the tapes?

Niall’s gaze falls to the volume of Keats on my lap. “Hey, man. Mine? I’ll wait.” He collapses on the bench next to me and closes his eyes, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Two years is an awfully long time to keep a secret, and secrets weigh heavier with each passing day. It got to the point where I literally could not eat at the same table as you, Niall. Knowing you were going to throw it all up after made me nauseous. And you flinched every time I snapped a rubber band against my wrist, something the other boys thought was a nervous tick but you knew meant I was desperately itching for a razor or a lighter….just something to sharpen my senses, raise my adrenaline.

I guess in the end, our friendship was utterly destroyed by our secrets.

So now I’m telling. He needs help, more than I ever did. He’s still got a chance at redemption, whereas I’m past the point of no return.

Niall, I’m sorry. But stick around, babe. You’ll never believe where you pop up next.

End of Tape 3

I pull off the headphones and turn to face Niall. “Bulimia?”

He doesn’t even try to deny it, just meets my eyes steadily. “Yeah.”

“Another tape?”

He shrugs this time. “It’s bad. But there are worse things there. Thirteen though…” he trails off, a shadow crossing his face. “Thirteen deserves every ounce of guilt from these tapes and then some.”

“What happened?”

“You’ve gotta listen,” Niall says, fidgeting. “And just so you know…I’m going to get help. As soon as these tapes are through the list, I’m getting real help.” He rises and starts off down the sidewalk.

“Niall, hey. It wasn’t your fault.”

“No, but I certainly helped. See you at rehearsal tomorrow.” Niall gives an awkward wave. “And…good luck. You’re going to need it.”

He disappears down the sidewalk and I find myself opening the walkman to flip the tape over.

Was this my tape? Was that why Niall had wished me good luck?

What is the worth of a child? Is it laughter? Smiles? Innocence? How do you measure the worth of a child? Number Four, you’re getting antsy. You know this is for you. Everyone else must be incredibly confused as to why I’m bringing up children.

This isn’t my tape, then. I don’t know why Harry would bring up children, or even who might be the subject of this tape.

I love kids. They’re energetic, playful. The ones I know never stop moving and they’re brutally honest when no one else will be. I think a child is worth more than a dozen adults because they know and understand so much more than anyone ever gives them credit for.

A kid I used to babysit once defended his older sister when she came out to a group of adults. Love is love was his argument. You know there’s something special about a kid when they understand topics adults can’t even grasp.

Which is why I feel so guilty about helping to make sure one never came into the world.

This doesn’t make sense. At all.

It wasn’t my child, don’t worry. That’s one thing Harry Styles has never done, got someone pregnant. If it had been my kid…well, things would be a lot different, wouldn’t they?  I'd still be around, for one. Killing yourself when you've got a child at home is just irresponsible. But this girl, she was a good friend, and that’s why I helped her out.

Who could this possibly be? I stand and start walking again—I’m too jittery to sit still. I haven’t got a location to walk to, so I just pick a direction and begin walking.

I’m not going to say who this girl is yet. The facts need to be laid bare first for you to understand.

She was twenty-two—but scared.  A tough girl, but she had a career, and having a baby would probably destroy it. Her boyfriend would likely be supportive, if a bit upset and confused. And yes, the baby was his. Trust me, if she said he was the only guy she’d slept with, he was the only guy she’d slept with.

But imagine you’re in this girl’s place: your career is just taking off.Your boyfriend was a pop star with a squeaky-clean image. Any news of a pregnancy—-even rumors—would mean your comfortable low-key relationship would suddenly become very high profile. There would be a lot of negative backlash against you. You’d seen it happen to some of your friends and you were terrified.

Could this possibly be Eleanor? Two years ago, right before we broke up, there was a pregnancy rumor that had some incredibly nasty behavior against her.  But I’m also very sure Eleanor wasn’t actually pregnant, because…well, she would have told me. Wouldn’t she?

Is this person even related to One Direction?

I almost pass by a convenience store but decide to go inside and grab something to eat. I have a feeling I’m not going to be stopping for an actual dinner or any kind of sleep until I’m finished with these tapes, and who knows how long that’s going to take? I’m only halfway through the fourth of thirteen, and it’s already been two hours. And if the stories are getting progressively worse…well, it would be logical to assume they also get longer.

You don’t know what to do, so you call me, the only person you can think of who might have a clue as to what to do. With my reputation…well, you assume this kind of thing would be old hat.

When we talk, you’ve already made up your mind. You can’t keep the baby and the father can’t know. You’ve already made an appointment, but you can’t go it alone. You beg me to go with you.

I agree.

A soft tone chimes as I open the door. Instead of letting it swing shut behind me, I hold the edge of the door and slowly push it shut so the chime will go off again. At the back of the store, behind a wall of see through glass, are the refrigerated drinks. And although I’m not thirsty, I go there. I open one of the doors and pull out a bottle of iced coffee, the first thing I touch.

I pay quickly and leave the store, tucking the bottle into my pocket. It clinks against the tape I’ve already listened to, a soft rhythm that I can barely hear over the static buzz of the headphones.

Keep in mind here, I believe a woman’s body is her own. If she’s ready to be a mother, she’s ready to be a mother. But if she’s not, it’s her choice to abort the baby or put it up for adoption. I believe she, of all people, would know best if she’s able to raise a child. I just believe the father should have some say, is all.

So. Danielle, do you still believe you made the right choice by not telling Liam? You and Liam are thinking about getting married, sweetheart. Don’t you think Liam deserves to know about your first child?

Danielle? Danielle Peazer? That’s not possible.

Danielle and Liam are sickeningly close. They’re on the phone with each other all the time, to the point where management has sat them both down and lectured them about appropriate conduct in public. There’s no way Danielle wouldn’t have told Liam she was pregnant, especially knowing how much Liam loved kids.

That’s why she and Liam are considering getting married now, rather than waiting another couple of years. They both want kids.

So…when did this happen?

Danielle, I understand why you did what you did. You were twenty two, pregnant and scared. You had no idea how his management would react and you were terrified. And I was stupid enough to say yes.

You meet up with me on a Tuesday, wearing jeans and your boyfriend’s sweatshirt. I hid my hair under a beanie and we both wore sunglasses. Neither of us wanted to be recognized. We took the bus—management couldn’t know and any sort of car would be a dead giveaway.

At the clinic, I helped you fill out all the medical forms and faked your boyfriend’s signature when it asked if the father knew and approved.

I’m amazed no one’s dug up those records yet.

Are abortion records even public? I don’t think they are.

The nurse collected you then and bustled me off to a waiting room. An hour later, we left the clinic.

You didn’t speak, but you were crying. We passed a graveyard, and that’s where you broke down entirely. We ended up going into the graveyard because people were starting to stare and there was a bench anyways. We sat there for awhile, you and I.

I checked the map, and sure enough, a graveyard was marked—space A-5. It was only two blocks from my current location, so I turned and began walking that way.

Someone stopped beside us and told us they were sorry for the loss of our child. It took a second to realize we were in the part of the graveyard where young children were buried. The tombstone next to us read ‘God’s garden has need of little flowers.’ It was a tombstone for a little girl by the name of Lucy Payne.

God likes playing jokes, I guess.

I can’t even imagine how that must have been for Danielle to see a tombstone with that particular name on it, especially considering Liam has said he’d want his first daughter to be named Lucy.

 Finally, you got yourself together and we lit a candle inside the church for the unborn baby. It was probably sacrilege, but you said you wanted to, just to know someone was up there looking out for the baby.

You swore me to secrecy, then we parted ways and I went directly to an interview while you, presumably, went home.

And that was it.  Just one more secret for Harry Styles to keep.

After I dropped you off, I took the longest possible route to the interview and arrived twenty minutes late. But in the hours between when we parted ways and when I arrived at the interview, I explored alleyways and hidden roads I never knew existed in London. I discovered things entirely new to me—like just how many graveyards one city can hold, hidden sculptures, things I never would have seen without. And finally…I discovered exactly how sick I was of this town, this life and everything to do with it. Not necessarily because of you, Danielle. But because things were starting to add up and I simply didn’t know what to think any more.

I’ve often wondered what would be different if you had kept the baby or chosen to talk to someone else. I guess that’s the kind of thing that just won’t have an answer.

The graveyard was rather large, with neatly arranged tombstones and evenly clipped grass barely covered by the dirty snow. Outside, there’s a man selling flowers, and I buy a bouquet—family tradition. If you go to a cemetery, you bring flowers for someone’s grave. Even if you know no one there.

I push open the gate and step inside, wandering down the clean stone path.

This tape isn’t about regret. It’s not about me feeling like I did the wrong thing going with Danielle to the clinic. I know I did the right thing then—she were going to have an abortion, no matter what my personal beliefs were, and I wasn’t going to force her to go alone. No one deserves that. I believe it was her choice, and I respect that.

No, this tape is about what-ifs and what could-have-beens. You can’t change the past, and you can’t help but wonder about things that have already happened and are irrevocably different from what they once were. I don’t regret going with Danielle to the clinic, and I don’t regret helping Danielle get her life back in order. But I do regret the baby’s death…or nonexistence, depending on how you look at it. How would One Direction be different if there was a Baby Direction two years ago? How would the fans react? And…would it really matter?

An interesting point to ponder, isn’t it?

I think the real reason this affected me so much was because for the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why Danielle wouldn’t tell Liam. She didn’t have to tell the public or even management. But she could have told the baby’s father—unless, of course, the baby wasn’t his. Was it really? I don’t know. I try not to bring it up, and something tells me if I tried to ask, she’d refuse to answer.

Next tape.

I slide the headphones off and sit on one of the memorial benches by the side of the path.

Wow.  I look up from where I’m sitting and absently read the tombstones—Blessed Angel, Beloved Daughter…Taken too soon…Guardian angels watch over thee…

I’m in the child section of the cemetery. If this was where Danielle and Harry were, I can see why she was so distressed.

I looked around until I found Lucy Payne’s tombstone. She was only a year old when she died, so Danielle’s baby would be the same age now as Lucy was when she died.

The tombstone beside hers seems to be for her grandfather, and instead of Lucy’s simple line, his is a poem.

Consider, friend, as you pass by
As you are now, so once was I
As I am now, you too shall be
Prepare, therefore, to follow me.

I split the bouquet and put the delicate white roses and baby’s breath on Lucy’s grave, the darker yellow roses on her grandfather’s grave.

I sit crosslegged on the ground and reach for the next tape. Here’s as good a place as any to listen to it, and no one seems to be coming to stop me. I wonder how many of the other listeners found this grave and sat here listening. Judging by the fresh daisies on Lucy’s grave, I’d say at least one.

“So, Lucy. You know what’s coming next?”

There isn't a reply. Of course there isn't. Sitting by the grave wasn’t as morbid as it sounded. The wind blows lightly and it’s bone-bitingly cold, but it’s also quiet and the only other people here are a hundred meters away—and they have their heads down, ignoring me.

People respect others in a graveyard. Probably something about being surrounded by hundreds of decaying bodies.

Fast forward two years. We’re now one month—to the day—before I record these tapes. And I warn you—this is a long tape. Settle in. You might be here for awhile. Here is where things start to happen and change. Here is where things begin to go horribly…horribly wrong.

Do me a favor and think about parties. Celebrity parties, that is. What’s the first thing that comes to mind?

Alcohol, usually. Lots of it. Drugs, sometimes, but not the parties we went to. Boybands need a clean image. Drinking’s legal—drugs aren’t. As long as no one gets too smashed and there aren’t any resulting scandals, we can drink.

Booze.

If alcohol wasn’t your first answer, you’ve obviously never been to one of those parties, because…well, that’s mainly what a celebrity’s party is for—getting drunk without too many watching eyes and cameras. And for letting loose with the people who will actually understand the pressures and difficulties of having your life constantly watched.

Alcohol plays a big role in the next two stories and parties continue through the next few.

I tug absentmindedly at the grass, trying to figure out where this is going. Harry’s never done anything crazy while drunk—none of us have, I don’t think. We all watch over each other, and besides, we’ve got too many minders to do something incredibly stupid.

But this tape isn’t just about alcohol, although really it should be. This tape is about mistakes made while drunk at a party…mistakes that ruined someone’s life. This story doesn’t directly affect me. In that, I mean I was never assaulted or intentionally hurt by you, Number Five. You didn’t mean to hurt me—but that doesn’t mean you didn’t hurt me.

At this particular party, I offered to drive. I just wanted an excuse not to have to drink. I was beginning to hate myself when I was drunk…if only because the secrets I already kept were bubbling to the surface an getting drunk would make them spill over.

So I didn’t drink. Big mistake. Big, big mistake.

I ended up camping out in a bedroom with another designated driver. We talked, flirted a bit. She’s not the subject of this tape, don’t worry…although, she will pop up again and not necessarily for the best of reasons.

The only girl I can think of who might have been a designated driver is Eleanor. Or maybe Kara, one of the nicer groupies who ran in the same circles we did.

But neither of them have done anything worth popping up on these tapes, at least that I know of.

We chatted for maybe two hours, about trivial things. We played Never Have I Ever with bottled water and shot glasses and laughed when a couple tried to stumble in. I’m going to be honest—she and I have never gotten along brilliantly, but right then, she could’ve been my best friend in the world…barring Louis, of course.

I jump, hearing my name. This can’t possibly be my tape yet, can it? I don’t think I’d done anything to hurt Harry, drunk or otherwise.

But then again, I am on these tapes, so I must have done something…but what?

Eventually, she had to leave because her friends were ready to go. I stuck around, mainly because the boys weren’t ready to leave yet.

The bedroom I was hanging out in was probably the room of a little sibling or something, because while the furniture was adult sized and neat, there were little glow in the dark stars stuck to the ceiling, and a mobile hung in the corner, that, when you flipped it on, projected little stars across the walls. It was kind of like the owner of the room just didn’t want to grow up.

I think I know what house that is now—Karen Young’s. We’ve been there dozens of times, for various parties and for publicity reasons, since she was dating Niall up until about a week ago. That was her little brother’s room, until he left for university. I remember because I crashed in there once with Liam and Zayn while Karen, Niall, Harry and Sonya watched a movie.

I watch the couple across the graveyard and pull the volume of Keats onto my lap. The cover is smooth and I run my hands over it while Harry continues speaking.

I’m not sure how long I lay on the floor by the closet, watching the stars flicker across the walls. But it was awhile. Long enough for me to question the secrets I was keeping and the people I was hurting by keeping them. I hold far more secrets than have made it onto these tapes, and so many of them will never come to light.

I thought long enough to start questioning exactly who I was anymore and wondering…if maybe it was time for me to end everything.

But my thoughts were interrupted by a couple coming into the bedroom. Actually, stumbled into the bedroom is more accurate. They were smashed—or at least, she was, and he was well on his way there.

Hello, Number Five and friend. So nice of you to join us.

The last time we were at Karen Young’s was a month and a half ago—exactly the right time for what Harry’s talking about. That night was particularly difficult, for all of us, but not for reasons involving the party. Well. Sort of.

But what Harry’s talking about isn’t the same thing I’m thinking of. But maybe it played a part?

Of course, I didn’t actually see them come in. I was still on the floor, tucked into the corner, and it was dark. I could smell the alchol on them, and something else: the smell of smoke. Someone had been smoking pot; and knowing this party, probably snorting coke too.

He kept her from stumbling too hard into the nightstand. And when she rolled off the bed…twice…he lifted her back on. He didn’t even laugh. I thought he would tuck her in and shut the door behind him as he left, because that was the kind of guy I knew him to be. And that would be the perfect time for me to leave. End of story—but we all know it’s not the end. If it was, this tape wouldn’t exist.

Instead of leaving, he started kissing her.

I know, you’re all so sure I would have stayed for such an amazing voyeuristic opportunity. Even if I was down on the floor and wouldn’t have seen it, at least I’d have heard it. Thing is, I’m not a pervert, and I really have no desire to watch one of my friends get it on with a stranger. I have no desire to see them get it on at all. Sorry, no. With them suitably distracted, you’d think I would or could leave.

Harry wouldn’t have done anything like that. Despite his reputation, he was always very clear that relationships were personal and should be respected.

I shift uncomfortably on the cold grass, a pile of slush soaking into my trousers. It was cold and wet, but I didn’t want to leave just yet.

But something kept me down on that floor. Things seemed to be winding down up there. Not only was she drunk and clumsy, she seemed to be completely unresponsive. From what I could tell, it didn’t go much beyond kissing. And it seemed to be one-sided kissing at that.

Again, nice guy that he was, he didn’t take advantage of the situation. That’s probably the only reason I’ve never confronted him about this. He tried for the longest time to get a reaction out of her, but it finally dawned on him that she wasn’t in the mood and wasn’t going to be for awhile. So he tucked her in and said he’d check on her in a bit.

Then he left.

He left? Then nothing happened to the girl. So what made this go onto the tapes?

I flipped open the book of Keats and stared blankly at the pages, trying to think and failing to comprehend what was going on.

At that party, I was downstairs. There was dancing and drinking, but I went outside with my drink and stared up at the stars. All of this was happening while I was outside, thinking about nothing in particular, and I never knew. I don’t think I would have known, if it hadn’t been for these tapes.

And honestly, I’d been happy not knowing.

You’re probably wondering why I haven’t given you names yet. Calm down, I haven’t forgotten. If I’ve still got anything, it’s my memory. Which is too bad. Maybe if I forgot things once in a while, we wouldn’t have these tapes.

No, you’ll have to wait for a name.

Before I say his name out loud, this guy needs to stew a little bit…to remember everything that happened in that room. And he remembers, I know he does.

I know she wasn’t your girlfriend, that you hardly ever talked to her and barely knew her, and you were just getting out of a long-term, serious relationship, but is that your best excuse for what happens next? Or is that your only excuse?

Either way, there is no excuse.

I stood up and got ready to leave, but your shoes—the shadow of your shoes, sorry—were still visible under the door. Because when you left, you didn’t. You took post right outside the door. What for? I don’t know. Maybe you thought you were protecting her. But I don’t think so, considering what happened next.

Halfway to the door, another pair of shoes came into view…and I stopped. The door opened, but you pulled it back and said, “No. Let her rest.”

In that tiny burst of light, I saw a closet. And I hid. Meanwhile, your friend was convincing you to let him into that room.  The bedroom door opened again. But again, you pulled it shut. And you tried to make a joke of it. “Trust me,” you said. “She won’t move. She’ll just lay there.”

What was his response? Do you remember? Because I do.

A flight. He had an early morning flight and he had to leave in a few minutes. A few minutes, that’s all he needed. So just relax and step aside.

Just relax…why did that sound so familiar? I feel like I should know who this person is, but I can’t quite place it.

The couple across the graveyard starts to walk my way, so I get up and slowly walk down the path.

And that’s all it took for you to let him open the door.

I couldn’t believe it. And your friend couldn’t believe it either, because when he grabbed the doorknob again, he didn’t rush right in. He waited for you to protest.

I collapsed on the floor in the closet and curled into the corner. I bit my arm to keep myself from screaming, because God knows that’s all I wanted to do right then.

But with the music as loud as it was, I don’t think anyone would have heard me anyways. And so with the bass thumping, no one heard him walking across the room…getting on the bed…the bedsprings creaking under his weight…no one heard a thing. No one, that is…except me.

And I could have stopped it. If I could have talked, if I could have seen, if I could have stood up and opened those closet doors and stopped it. But I didn’t. There isn’t an excuse. I just stayed there, biting into my arm until I tasted blood and then biting down in another spot.

If he bit himself until he bled, why didn’t we notice?

Right. Everything else that happened that night. Something like a scabbed over bite mark would have gone entirely unnoticed.

I don’t know how many songs went by. But finally, he finished and left. After all, he couldn’t miss his flight, could he?

I bet you’re all thinking—who was this guy? Who was the girl?

Truth is…I don’t know.

The first guy? Yeah, him I know. God, I wish i didn't, but I do. The girl I know, but I won’t subject her to this. Her life is hard enough already, and she certainly didn’t deserve what happened to her.

But the second guy? The one who raped the anonymous girl? I don’t know who he is. I’ll probably never find out. But I can’t forgive myself—or Zayn—for that. For not stepping in and stopping it. Either of us could have.

And we didn’t.

I guess that’s your big reveal.

I pause the tape and rewind it, making sure I hadn’t misheard—but no, the name is still the same. Zayn had been that guy…and if I think about it, I might even know who the second guy was.

I don’t know if I want to know, though. I’m friends with most of Zayn’s friends. Do I really want to know this kind of thing about any of them, that they were capable of raping someone?

Either way, I probably won’t be finding out.

So what happened after the second guy left? Well, I came out of the closet—no one make any comments about that please, you know exactly what I mean—I ran out of the room and straight down the hall. And that’s where I saw you, sitting there, staring at nothing, while I stood in the hallway, frozen, staring at you.

We’d come a long way, Zayn. From bootcamp to world tours to now. And I couldn’t believe what kind of person you were turning out to be, even after four years of friendship.

Eventually, you turned my way. The color in your face…gone. Your expression…blank. And your eyes looked so exhausted. Or was it pain I saw there?

I can’t imagine Zayn looking that way. I just can’t.

I push open the gate to the graveyard and turn into the church proper.

It’s a large stone building, with towers that almost touch the low-hanging London clouds. Inside, it’s dimly lit—it is, after all, a Thursday evening and there aren’t very many people here.

I walk forward and sit down in the middle of the pews, bracing my forearms on my knees and letting my head hang down. Harry’s still talking; he’s still got the rest of the story to tell.

Zayn, I don’t know what was going through your head. Maybe you were too drunk to make good decisions. I know you had been doing drugs that evening and hoping we wouldn't notice. But judging by your walk, you weren’t. Judging by your pupils, by the stench on your clothes, you weren't drunk. You weren't high. If you had been, you weren't anymore. Maybe you knew he had a thing for her and you thought you were doing him a favor. Maybe you just thought he was joking around.

I don’t know what you were thinking, but both of us are somewhat to blame for what happened to her.

Either of us could have stepped in and made him stop. And neither of us did, so we’re both responsible for ruining her life.

What are you doing to alleviate your guilt, Zayn? Did you honestly forget? Did you convince yourself she would have wanted it, were she sober? Or did you honestly just…not…care?

Your friend, Zayn. What do you think of him now? Do you hate him? Your friend that raped her, is he still your friend?

Yes. But why?

Maybe you convinced yourself he’s really a good guy. That he might have a temper, and sure, maybe he goes through girls like used underwear, but he’s honestly a good guy and didn’t do anything wrong. Because if he didn’t do anything wrong, you didn’t do anything wrong. And that’s great! I hope it’s working out for you.

Because it’s sure as hell not working out for me. I’m here to tell you—we’re both to blame. The only difference is that I can’t live with the guilt.

End of Tape 5

With my head down, I start to cry.

I’m not sure why I’m crying; Zayn’s story was no more or less emotional than any other story on this tape and it didn’t affect me personally. Maybe it was because unlike the other stories on these tapes, I was close enough to be involved in this one. I was at that party; I almost stayed with Harry.

I had left Zayn alone with that girl way back at the beginning of the party. Well. Sort of. We’d arrived as a group and gone together to get drinks. Liam disappeared almost immediately to find Danielle while Harry vanished upstairs. Niall stuck by myself and Zayn until he found Kara, and then it was just Zayn and I.

We both got our drinks and headed over to a group of girls. Zayn went to flirt, I just went to talk until I could find out if Eleanor was going to be here or not. Zayn insisted she wouldn’t mind, as we were on a short break; I wasn’t so sure I agreed. But I went with him. He flirted with a pretty brunette while I chatted with two of her friends who proudly informed me they were together.

Soon after, Zayn hinted for me to leave and I did with a quip to be careful. The girls’ friends left as well, giving her what was presumably a similar warning. I feel responsible, especially now that I know the full extent of the damage that happened that night, intentional or not.

The tape clicks itself over and I wipe away the tears. Harry’s still got more of a story to tell, and I’ve still got to listen. The idea of trashing the tapes occurs to me again, but I dismiss it immediately. I need to know where I am and what I did to Harry, because Zayn didn’t know on his tape, so I probably won’t know on mine.

Back to the party, ladies and gents. But don’t get too comfortable—we’ll be leaving in just a tick.

After Zayn and I broke our stare, I descended the stairs into the actual party. And—yes, I’ll admit it—I drank when I wasn’t supposed to. I’m actually very good at holding my liquor, by the way. But right then, I certainly didn’t want to be. I just wanted to forget what I’d seen and heard.

Everywhere I went, people were laughing or dancing, and all I wanted was quiet. I found a corner and broke down, spilling my cup on the floor but somehow missing myself.

And that’s where Number Six found me.

Hello, Nick.

“Come on, Harry, I’ll drive you home,” you said, reaching your hand down to help me up.

Nick? I suppose that makes sense, considering everything else that happened.

I remember seeing him there, flitting from group to group. And considering what his ex boyfriend had just done? He was probably looking for an excuse—any excuse—to leave.

I don’t know what made you do it, stop by me and offer a drive home. Maybe you’d seen enough bad things happen at parties, things that people just didn’t want to talk about. Maybe you’d seen Zayn yourself—or maybe something similar had happened to you. And maybe that girl was your friend and you’d just heard her story, although how you knew I was involved is beyond me. Maybe you remembered that once upon a time, we'd been good friends, even if we weren't so close now. Or maybe, you were just looking for the publicity of me waking up in your flat.

But for whatever reason, you wanted to help me. And god knew that in the past three years, that hadn’t happened enough.

I tried to help you, Harry. I would have done more, but I hadn’t known anything was wrong then.

“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” you repeated, and this time, I don’t argue. I let you help me to my feet and loop your arm through mine, a reassuring body warmth that someone was there and was carrying me through. I let you guide me outside and into your car where I break down.

You didn’t know why I was upset then, and you probably don’t, to this day. Well. Now you do, you’ve heard tape five. But you crawled into the small seat beside me and hugged me tight, wrapping your arms around my neck and stroking your hands through my hair.

And you cried too, for whatever reason. I don’t know what happened to you in there, but it must have been as bad as what happened to me, because you cried as much as I did. I ended up speaking, trying to explain—you just pushed up my sleeve, touched my scars and then kissed me.

He'd been dumped. Hugely and publicly by his ex-boyfriend, as he practically flipped him off whilst making out with a girl.

He'd come to the front porch and sat with me for awhile, not talking. Both of us watched the stars, and then he went back inside. It was strange for Grimshaw; it was strange for me too. But it was something I dismissed, and I think he did as well.

Next thing we knew…headlines.

Not a romantic kiss, just a press of lips, an “I’m here with you,” sort of kiss. It wasn’t much, but it was comfort, plain and simple. Neither of us love each other—neither of us loved each other. But human contact almost made it better. We were both dealing with problems bigger than ourselves, and we simply wanted to know someone else was there.

 “Shh, it’s okay,” you said, and hummed some sort of lullaby. I think I hummed along too.

We talked then, through our collective tears. Your fingers danced over my scars, pressing down on a blister. And you showed me your own, thin parallel lines covered by tattoo ink and a thin smear of makeup that you rubbed off. Sometime then, you took a sharpie out of the glove compartment and drew something on my arm—a peace sign and a question mark, to match yours, although mine was much less permanent.

Maybe I remember seeing that from the front porch. The car, I mean. There was a car, and a couple in the car—but I hadn’t known who it was.

But Nik kissing Harry? That was weird, as they’d both claimed not to like each other as more than friends. But maybe that was what it was—a friend kissing a friend.

You held me until my cries stopped and then you climbed over me into the driver’s seat and started the car.

It was raining, massive sheets of water obscuring everything. The car’s inside glass fogged up as mist rose from the warm pavement, making all of London hazy and dreamlike. It felt like a cocoon there, safe and sound. I knew, in the back of my mind, I was going to get chewed out for leaving the boys behind at the party, but in that moment, I just felt so broken that it felt so good to be somewhere that seemed safe.

Back at the party, things were really starting to pick up, now that the obligatory drama was out of the way. None of us knew anything that was going to happen.

Now, in the present, I stand up and move down the side aisle to the table full of prayer candles. I drop a coin in the collection box and light one, whispering a prayer for something that’s already happened.

I turn for the door.

We drove to your apartment, you declaring I needed a change. I suggested a haircut—you enthusiastically agreed. You produced a pair of electric clippers—your dad’s, you said, accidentally put in a box when you moved out—and a bedsheet to keep my hair from getting everywhere. You flicked them on and began clipping.

That probably wasn’t the best idea, letting a slightly-drunk girl near my head with sharp blades, but I was tipsy enough by then not to care. I don’t think you did half-bad with the clippers, by the way—my hair was short now, long enough to wave slightly but not enough to curl entirely. I looked an entirely new person, and I felt so much lighter.

Harry’s haircut was a big change and combined with everything else, it’s not surprising no one noticed anything wrong.

I’m hit with a wave of cold air as I exit the church. The sun has set, but it’s not dark out, not yet. It’s twilight, the hour where London falls asleep. I skirt a couple with a baby stroller and am reminded of Danielle’s story.

God, we’re all irrevocably changed now, aren’t we? All of us with these tapes—we can’t exactly unhear them.

At that point, you produced a bottle of some sort of alcohol and we just drank there in the bathroom, my curls on a bedsheet between us, talking. You trimmed your hair with a pair of nail scissors, your hair falling onto the sheet between us.

Maybe an hour later, you realized how late it was and offered to drive me home. I took you up on that, considering your flat was a good hour drive from mine—and god knew how long of a walk it would have been.

All good things must come to an end, though.

Oh God no. He wasn’t. Harry couldn’t possibly have been. Somewhere in my mind, I know the facts. I know what logically must come next.

But I don’t want to believe it. I can’t believe it.

Nothing like a car accident to bring reality smashing back.

You screamed and I think I did too. We sat there for a minute after the crash, processing, realizing we were both still alive and that had really happened. You reached for your phone, but before you did, you waved me out, shooed me towards the door.

And so I left.

Everyone knows about Nick Grimshaw's car crash. Everyone knows he was just a little too drunk to drive and smashed into a lamp post. What everyone doesn’t know is that there were two people in that car. Or that one…simply walked away.

The police had no idea why Nick was so far from his house. I guess now those of us who have heard these tapes know why. He had been taking Harry home.

I later told the boys I had taken a taxi to some girl’s, and that’s where I’d been all night. Wrong. I walked. I walked for three or four hours—time didn’t exactly matter, in that kind of environment. I just walked, winding through the streets, rain falling and soaking through everything. My phone died, probably because I dropped it in a puddle and it shorted out.

You all remember the torrential downpour that night—a lot of people were stuck at the party house, because the roads flooded. That was the last time I was truly happy, simply an anonymous, short-haired boy walking the streets of London.

It’s almost eerie, thinking of how Harry and I both walked these streets alone and carrying secrets, although his were certainly weightier than mine. After all, mine came in the form of seven cassette tapes.

The heavy weight of the iced coffee bottle seems to drag at my coat—I pull the bottle out and drop it in the trash.

Eventually, I made it home as the sun rose.

Nick, love, you tried. Things happened to both of us that made us such good cry buddies. And I suppose I should thank you for not telling anyone I was with you—or did you simply forget I was even there in the first place? I’m inclined to believe the former; after all, you must have found my hair in your bathroom. You must have known. You had to have remembered. And yet you never said anything. So much happened that night that I don’t think anyone but you or I even know the full story.

Another missed opportunity to fix everything. Because Nick, you knew.

Who’s up next? Someone who actively made it worse.

Number seven, you know who you are.

You were wondering when you’d come up, weren’t you?

End of Tape 6

I continue walking.

It’s so strange to think of Harry with short hair, even though that is how it was, at the end. I always think of him with unruly curls and a cheeky smile, although at the end he was subdued with short hair, less the Harry I’d known all along.

I pop the tape out and replace it when Harry’s voice begins to tell me Zayn’s story over again. Once was bad enough—I don’t want to hear it again. I stop the walkman and put it in my pocket. There’s a coffeeshop open ahead of me, blessedly open. I step inside and order a coffee.

The girl at the register doesn’t recognize me—I don’t think she would have even if I looked entirely myself. She had dyed black hair and many piercings, tattoos and scars, definitely not someone who would know too much about a boyband.

“Plain black coffee, please,” I find myself saying, ordering Harry’s order rather than my own.

“Decaf or regular?”

“Regular, please.” I pay quietly and receive my coffee in a cardboard cup. Unlike Harry, I can’t—and won’t—drink it black, so I add several packets of sugar and a splash of milk.

“You’re Louis Tomlinson,” the girl says suddenly, appearing by my side to refill the canister of milk. My throat goes dry—I really can’t deal with a fan right now. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to fangirl—my little sister’s eight, she loves you and I quite honestly get sick of hearing the same songs over and over again.” She smiles, her lip piercing flashing. “Harry used to come in here a lot. Cool guy, we all miss him. He liked to mess with the tape recorders and scribble books.”

“Tape recorders?” I ask, managing to find my voice. I hope this isn’t going where I think it is and that she isn’t the keeper of the tapes.

“Yeah.” She points to a shelf by a window. “The owner likes to ‘encourage use of older media’.” She rolls her eyes and shrugs. “He loans out the tape recorders so the tech doesn’t go obsolete or something like that. Harry used to come in here for hours and listen to peoples tapes. I don’t think he ever recorded any of his own. I’m Janet, by the way.”

Another customer came in then and pointedly coughed. Janet rolls her eyes and set down the now-full canister of milk. “Feel free to check the tapes out. We don’t close for a couple of hours—university campus, you know?”

I nod and go over to the recorders. There are five in varying sizes, with shoeboxes full of cassette tapes beside them. Half the tapes are unlabelled and the other half have initials and descriptions scribbled on the side of them. The largest recorder is clunky and square, with a handheld microphone attached by a fraying black cord. The smallest could easily fit in my palm—maybe that’s the one Harry used to record his tapes. It’d be easy enough to take it and return it after he was done recording.

I pick out a random tape and slot it into my walkman, pressing play.

A woman’s voice, singing a lullaby to a crying child comes to my ears. I listen as she sings long enough for the baby’s cries to stop and then pick another tape.

This one is a conversation here in the coffeeshop, between two blokes discussing calculus homework and the newest episode of Doctor Who—the gruffer voice apparently doesn’t like Twelve very much. I listen to easily a dozen tapes on a variety of subjects before I get a surprise—Harry’s voice, lighter and more carefree than on my tapes.

Hey! It’s Harry Styles, no idea why I’m recording this, someone’s going to find it and sell it on eBay or something. But I just wanted to tell someone before the press release—we won a Brit! We’re not supposed to know until the ceremony, but Uncle Simon found out early and told us so we could prepare a speech. Insane, right? I can’t believe we got this far…

He trails off and the tape spins into silence. I remove it with shaking hands. It’s a jarring reminder—I’m not here just to listen to cassette tapes. I’m here to hear Harry out.

After a moment’s hesitation, I put Harry’s Brit tape into a pocket, where it clicks against the other tapes. I retrieve the fourth tape, the one labeled with a dark red 7 and 8. I lean back into the chair and close my eyes.

A lot of things happened because of my haircut. People were unsure how to respond. Backlash wasn’t so much negative as it was confused—why would I cut my trademark curls?

I needed a change, was the explanation I gave. I’d worn my hair long forever and all the other boys had changed their hairstyles at least once. Why not me? Management swallowed that lie and sent me to a professional hairstylist to even the cut and make it more stylish than my hasty trim.

I hadn’t gotten to see the cut until after Harry had been to a hairstylist. It had been weird—really weird—for all of us to see Harry with his hair short.

Janet waves to me as she starts to scrub the counter. I wave back absentmindedly, focusing on the tapes.

That’s not an insult to you, Nick. You are a great many things, most of them good. A men’s hairstylist simply isn’t one of them.

The most immediate effect of my new hairstyle was an argument, with someone I considered a friend. But before I tell you who this person is, you need to understand our relationship. You’d be surprised at how many people got it wrong.

Have you ever immediately disliked someone for no reason at all? Have you ever had a friend with whom everything is a completion? Where you always have to one-up the other to prove you’re the better person, the better athlete, the better singer, dancer, friend, whatever. You just have to do better than them?

Maybe you, number Seven, meant well. Actually, I know you meant well. You wouldn’t ever hurt anyone intentionally. It’s just not in your nature. You tried to look out for us—all of us—as best you could because we were all so young, so different.

What tangled webs we weave—everything is connected to everything else. And something you said—something you always said—brought me down. I don’t know why you said it—maybe jealousy or rage or maybe I did something wrong, but for whatever reason, you hated me.

That’s One Direction’s deep, dirty secret. Liam Payne hates Harry Styles. Well, that’s all right. I hated you too, Liam. But that doesn’t erase anything either of us did. Liam, I’ve never known what exactly I did that made you hate me. Was it because I succeeded where you didn’t? Was it because people saw me as the leader rather than you?

That can’t be right. Liam never hated Harry. Liam would never admit it, but he worried about Harry all the time and was always after me to make sure he got enough sleep, ate enough, got to places on time.

Whatever it was, you went out of your way to make my life miserable. Whenever I messed up—flubbed a note or tripped on stage—you were there to yell at me, correct my mistake, tell me how stupid I was. Did you honestly think that would help me?

Liam, did you know what you were really doing?

A couple comes in; orders; leaves.

When I got home after Nick's crash, it was almost ten in the morning. Not that it felt like it was that late because of the thick storm clouds preventing the sun from shining. But I got home at ten, and you were waiting for me, standing in the doorway with a towel and a mug of hot tea and a lecture ready to go.

“Louis is over at my apartment,” you said, scowling. “What the hell happened to your head?”

I shrugged, pushed past you into the kitchen. You managed to drape the towel around my shoulders as I passed. “Cut my hair,” I said shortly.

You watched as I set about making breakfast—oatmeal and toast, nothing too difficult. My head was starting to throb painfully. I was getting the beginnings of a slamover, one of those horrible hangovers where you get over it by not sleeping and just slamming through it.

I wince in sympathy and take a sip of coffee, washing away the bad taste that appears in my mouth at the thought of a slamover.

We’d come up with the term together after a party when we simply hadn’t gone to sleep and had a shoot the next morning. Harry had made toast and oatmeal then too, and from there that had become our typical hangover cure: toast, oatmeal and orange juice.

You noticed my flinch when you flicked the light on and retrieved the paracetemol from the bathroom. You gave me two pills with a sigh, and leaned on the counter.

“What’s going on with you, Harry?” you asked as the oatmeal water started to boil. “You’re acting incredibly weird.”

I told you I was fine.

You gave me a look, one of those “I know you’re lying to me but I’ll let it slide for now” looks, and launched into a lecture.

We’ve all had lectures from Liam. The Daddy Direction title isn’t just for show—Liam really does mother-hen all of us, Harry a little more so than everyone else. But they were always well-meant lectures, from an honest desire to make sure we’re all okay.

But Harry did have a point: Liam’s lectures could get repetitive, and after the night Harry had just had? I’m sure a lecture was the last thing he needed.

Honestly, I tuned out. You’ve given me so many lectures over the four years we’ve known each other that they all sounded the same. I wasn’t in the mood to hear it, so I didn’t.

You lectured for a good ten minutes about responsibility, about the band, about all of us. You talked about my hair and my behavior and how I was taking everything for granted, how if I got sick we’d all be in trouble, a dozen things I already knew.

But then you brought my reputation into it.

Maybe you thought you were helping—looking out for me when no one else was. I don’t know. I’ll never know. But it was just one thing more I didn’t need weighing me down.

That’s when I snapped. I told you to fuck off and shove your lecture where the sun don’t shine.

And you snapped back—honest to god yelled at me. Screamed insults and abuse and finally, when you were done, glared at me and said one last thing before leaving.

“You’re such a fucking slut, Styles, why you’re the leader I have no idea.”

My fingers clench on the chair.

The door to the coffeeshop opens then, admitting another customer.

Jenna, you had no idea how those simple rumors you began to spread back in Holmes Chapel would affect me, years later. But they did.

Liam. You meant well. At least, I hope you did. You’d never said anything—

A hand fell on my shoulder, much as Niall’s had done earlier.

“Lou…you alright?” Liam asks softly.

I stand up and punch him as hard as I can. The walkman, tapes and volume of Keats tumble to the floor. Liam reels back, clapping a hand to his face.

“Okay, I deserved that,” he says, rubbing the spot where my fist made impact. I’d missed his eyes and nose but landed a solid hit on his cheekbone. My hand stings and I shake it, hissing. Liam’s eyes narrow and he reaches for it, inspecting the knuckles and joints. “Your hand’ll be fine,” he says finally. “But hear me out, please.”

I relax slowly, exhaling and looking him dead in the eyes. “Is it a good explanation?”

Liam shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know. Janet, it’s fine!”

Janet looks suspicious but turns away, scrubbing the counter again.

“I didn’t know,” he says helplessly, shrugging again. “I thought I was helping.”

“Slut?”

He winces. “I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have. But none of us knew then, and we just didn’t have the pieces to guess. I was trying to help him—make sure he didn’t get lost. I just didn’t know he was already lost. I had no clue how much it would hurt him.” Liam suddenly looks so old, so weary. He rubs his eyes and scrubs a hand down his face. “I screwed up majorly. We all did. But me moreso than most.”

“How did you find me?” I ask, instead of the dozens of accusations I want to make. I’m later on these tapes—I probably did worse to Harry without even knowing it.

“Niall texted me. I figured you’d be around here by now. No one should have to be alone for these tapes. You most of all.” His gaze falls to the volume of Keats on the floor. “Can I borrow that? I’ll hang out while you listen. You just finished my tape, yeah?”

“Almost. A little more to go.” He picks up the volume and turns to sit across the shop. “Liam? Why are you doing this?”

Liam didn’t respond right away; instead, he flipped the book over in his hands. “I messed up with Harry. I’m not letting the rest of you go.”

I stand, grabbing my coffee cup. “Let’s walk then.”

Liam holds up a set of keys. “Or we can drive? Just…finish my tape first. Then we’ll go wherever you need to.”

I sit back down and rewind some—the tape has been playing the whole time I’ve been talking with Liam.

— well. At least, I hope you did. You’d never said anything purposely hurtful to me before. You were tired and you wanted your friends back to the way they were in the very beginning when no one had any problems. You had your hands full that night—Kara breaking up with Niall, Zayn’s odd behavior after vanishing for awhile, Louis probably being drunk off his ass, me vanishing and returning sans hair, your upcoming proposal, the new tour, the rainstorm…you were worn out and you just wanted everything fixed to where you could control it.

But you were trying to fix the wrong thing and you were applying the wrong cure to the wrong wound. You thought I was losing focus, not that I was losing myself.

After you left, I slid down the wall to sit on the floor, a cabinet handle digging into my back. I half-cried, half-laughed, hiccupped and I probably looked horrible, snot and everything. The stove made a hissing sound as the pot of oatmeal boiled over, burning.

I don’t know why I remember that. The oatmeal burning, I mean. I got up to clean up the mess, and by that time, my tears had stopped.

Just another thing I couldn’t do right.

End of Tape Seven.

The tape ends suddenly. I sit there for a minute, thinking over everything Harry’s said, but eventually I take the headphones off and walk over to Liam, who’s ordered a cup of coffee and has been waiting patiently by the door. He wraps his arm around my shoulder and guides me to his car, waving to Janet as we leave. He settles me in the front seat and I’m reminded of Nick's tape. But Liam doesn’t hug me, just lets me be.

“The next tape’s not so easy,” he warns, starting the vehicle. “Probably worse than mine.”

I don’t start the tape, not yet. “How did you find me?” I ask again.

Liam carefully pulls the car out of its parking slot and starts driving towards the center of town. “Like I said, Niall texted me.”

“Why?”

“I confronted Niall after listening to the tapes—I didn’t go wandering around London for mine, by the way.” He smiles sheepishly. “I lost the map. But I went and talked to Niall, and he told me what I guess he told you.”

“That he’s getting help?”

“That, and a bit more.” Liam turns the car smoothly into a gap in traffic, taking a side street. “But he texted me maybe two hours ago to say you had the tapes, so I set out to find you. Sheer luck I did, really. I waited at the graveyard for awhile but you must have gone right past me. Finally, one of the people in the church told me someone matching your description had walked this way. So it was just luck I found you, really.”

“Did you find Harry’s other tape?”

Liam looks at me blankly. “What tape?”

“The one he left in the coffeeshop. About the Brit Awards.”

Liam shakes his head. “No. I don’t think anyone else went there, much less listened to the other tapes.” He gives the yellow walkman lying innocently on the console between us a pointed look. “You really should listen to the next story.”

I slowly put the headphones back on and press play, watching Liam’s face as I do so.

Not much is sacred when you’re famous. Little details become common information when you’re constantly in the limelight—complete and total strangers know everything about you, from your favorite food to what you put in your tea to where you went to school to how many siblings you have and when their birthdays are. Simple actions like going out to buy milk are photographed and put in tabloids.

It’s all part of the package, really—part of the price you have to pay for doing something you love. I don’t mind that so much—it meant people were interested in us. What bothered me were the rumors.

The streetlights are on now—I hadn’t noticed, being in the coffeeshop, that the sun had really set.

If this tape is about rumors, it’s another tape that isn’t about me. There are only five more tapes left—how far back am I?

Rumors have the power to make or break a career, especially in a career like mine. Reputations can make and break the target audience—if you play your cards right, you can turn a scandal into a publicity maneuver.

The problem is that bad rumors hurt us in the profession personally, drag at moral and hurt us all. They often come from people close to us. When they do, Management gets incredibly pissed—they want to know where they’re coming from and they want to shut the person up before more careers are destroyed.

That’s why” Delta Source” was such a problem.

I snort, hearing Harry use the candid name Zayn had come up with when we were all bored out of our minds on the tour bus. Management didn’t know we called it that. Liam gave me a look but understanding dawned on his face—of course he wouldn’t remember the details of the tape.

“Delta Source?” he asks, the car turning smoothly. I nod, and his lips quirk up in a smile. “Can’t believe he used that in a tape.”

Who was “Delta Source” then, if Liam expected me to be upset about it?

 For those of you who aren’t familiar with our management, “Delta Source” was the name of an inside source that kept leaking information, songs, rumors, the like. If the name seems cheesy, it completely is. Blame Zayn—he came up with it after spending too much time with his secret love, sci-fi novels. Management didn’t actually use that term—that was more us, as a group. They preferred to call it “The Leak”, which always sounded like someone using the toilet to me.

“Delta Source” was a constant thorn in Management’s side. They leaked songs, photos, clips from interviews, anything they could get their hands on. There was no pattern to the leaks—no real clues as to who it could be. There were easily twenty people who it could have been.

So when I found out who it was, I should have told someone, right?

Well. No. It wasn’t that easy. I wish it had been.

I pull the headphones off. “What does he mean it wasn’t that easy? He could’ve just told someone.” Liam shoots me a sympathetic look, one I don’t understand.

“You have to listen to the tape.” I open my mouth to speak again, but he gives me a pained look. “Please. Just, listen.”

“Delta Source” was someone we all trusted implicitly—someone none of us suspected. I liked her well enough—in fact, we were often sober buddies at parties when it was our respective turns to drive. She was dating one of my friends, one of my best friends.

The day after the party, I went for a walk. I passed a coffeeshop, and what did I see inside?

Don’t look now, but it’s my friend from the party. Remember the girl I hung out with, the other designated driver?

I know at the back of my mind who it has to be, but I don’t want to believe it. I can’t believe it.

It can’t be her.

There has to be someone else at the party, someone who was there. It has to be someone else.

I saw her sitting with a known tabloid reporter, handing him what looked to be a USB. The reporter gave her an envelope, hugged her and left, brushing past me on the way out. He did a double-take at my face but shook his head when he saw my hair—the only good thing to come out of my haircut.

The girl tucked the envelope into her purse and set out to leave, but crashed into me as she left the door. When she saw it was me, she paled.

I’m so sorry, Louis.

The girl was Eleanor Calder.

The words hit me like a sucker punch. Eleanor. His voice is small and tired, and he’s uttering those words as if he doesn’t want to speak them aloud.

Eleanor was the leak; Eleanor was the one who kept causing all that trouble for us. Eleanor did something to Harry that made everything worse.

That wasn’t possible. I didn’t want it to be possible.

Liam turned left again, watching me worriedly.

Eleanor, I’m not sure what made you become the leak. I know they paid you, but was that your only reason? Did you do it for the thrill of it? I’d like to imagine you weren’t the kind of girl who got off on making nasty rumors about your boyfriend and his friends, but I don’t really know.

The conversation we had after running into each other at the coffeeshop didn’t clarify anything. It made more questions than answers, and it threatened to hurt more people than just me.

Why would you do that, Eleanor?

I greeted you cheerfully and grabbed your elbow, escorting you back into the shop. I pulled you to sit at a table—you were scared stiff but didn’t resist. You went with me because you didn’t know how much I’d seen or what kind of information I had on you. So you sat down.  From the look on your face, your mind was racing a thousand miles an hour, trying to find a way out.

My fingers clench on the armrest—I don’t want to hear this. I don’t.

I asked who you’d been talking with, and you told me it was an old friend from college. I asked why you’d accepted money from him.

That where things got interesting. You paled even further and pointedly told me it was none of my business.

I backed off, shrugging, said, “I was just wondering why you were having coffee with another bloke. I’m not sure how happy Louis would be about that.”

You told me I wouldn’t dare. And then you began to make threats.

You told me you knew about my scars and Niall’s bulimia. You said you knew that Zayn still smoked and Louis was a compulsive liar, a short list of several things that would be very dangerous if they ever got out. For the record, exactly two of the things on that list were true—and I could tell you didn’t really know any of that. You were guessing—but your guesses were spot on for myself and Niall, just proving that they were there under the surface, just waiting for someone to see them.

I wince. My stomach rolls unpleasantly, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

We all missed it. How could Eleanor have guessed and the rest of us not had a clue?

I told you I knew you were the leak and that if management ever got ahold of that little tidbit of information, you’d be neck-deep in lawsuits from our record company.

Stalemate.

You stared me down, and I suggested a trade off: you stopped leaking information—even false information—and I wouldn’t turn you in to Management. You agreed and we shook on it.

Then you went your way and I went mine. I didn’t really think about it afterwards.

Two days later, Louis came home, looking soundly upset. When I asked him what was wrong, he told me you’d broken up with him.

I swallow, hearing my name again. If this—what Eleanor did—got her this far on the tapes, how far am I? How much damage did I do to Harry without realizing?

I guess you’d only been dating him because he could get you information to sell, or something along those lines. But back at the beginning, you must have liked him, right? That’s what I told myself, because I didn’t want to think I was responsible for helping end a relationship my best friend and flatmate put so much stock in—the little bit of normalcy he still had left.

But it wasn’t a healthy relationship—you were using him. So even though he was happy, you weren’t. And you were always going to break his heart.

What explanation did you give, Eleanor? What did you tell him when you ended it after four years together? I know you didn’t tell him about your being “Delta Source”, because he looked blank when I asked if he knew anything about it.

She told me we’d been growing apart and she was ready to move on. And that she was developing feelings for someone else.

That was it.

My eyes sting. Not from the salt in my tears, but because I haven’t closed them since finding out what Eleanor had done.

Every part of my brain screams for me to take the headphones off and to deny all of it, but I can’t do that. I can’t bring myself to do it—not with Liam sitting a less than meter away and watching me worriedly.

“Lou? You okay?”

I shake my head no.

“Are you going to be okay?”

I shrug. “I don’t…I don’t know. Let me…let me finish.”

Liam nods.

There was one last rumor released after you broke up with Louis. I don’t know if it was you or if it was someone else—but someone started the rumor that the reason you and Louis had broken up was because he was cheating on you…with me.

I let it slide because that kind of rumor was common enough, it could have been anyone. But I sincerely believe it was you, letting one last parting shot fly before leaving our lives forever.

You were my friend, Eleanor. And maybe it’s a mistake putting you on this list, because here, you’ve got thirteen tapes of tabloid fodder to sell. Thirteen tapes worth of secrets and scandals, enough to make any tabloid drool.

Thirteen tapes worth of scandal, perfect ammunition to hurt your ex-boyfriend and his friends.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I choke out. Liam pulls the car over to the side of the road and I open the door, stumbling out onto the curb.

I don’t vomit, but I sure feel close to it.

Looking around, I realize we’re on a residential street.  It’s dark, lit only by streetlamps.

But just remember: you’re on these tapes too. Sell the others and people will start to wonder…what happened to tape seven? And there’s someone out there who will release your tape if that happens.

Maybe they’ll be forgiving to you, since there are people who did so much worse on these tapes. After all…we’re just getting started, aren’t we?

End of Tape Eight

This time, I really do cry, shaking shoulders and everything. My stomach is still rolling unpleasantly and I want to vomit, but there’s nothing there but coffee and milkshake from earlier.

Liam looks at me curiously. “Lou…when was the last time you ate?”

I shrug helplessly. “Lunch? I had a milkshake earlier.”

“You need to eat, Lou. You can’t listen to this on an empty stomach.” Liam grips my wrist and helps me to my feet. “Come on, up you get.” He settles me in the front seat and tosses me a granola bar. “We’re not going anywhere until you eat that.”

He watches me as I choke it down, then nods in satisfaction and starts the car. I think it’s a bad idea to eat, but I do feel a little less dizzy.

“Is the next tape bad?”

Liam’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Yeah. Pretty bad. Worse than Eleanor’s? I don’t know. I’m not you, so I don’t know.” He stops at a light. “Can I see your map? We’re going somewhere and I need to double check the address.”

I fish the map out from a pocket and hand it over. He thanks me and opens it; I pull on the headphones and brace myself.

Head to square F-12, everyone. I’ll tell you a story on the way.

How do you prevent rape and sexual assault?

My stomach rolls again. Curling forward, I hug my legs and lay my forehead on my knees.

Another tape that isn’t mine…another story I don’t want to hear.

For my female listeners, you probably have a laundry list of things—don’t wear short skirts, use the buddy system at parties, don’t be afraid to scream ‘rape’, carry a rape whistle. My older sister took a self-defense class when she was fifteen—ten evening classes on how to protect herself and avoid rape.

But us males? No one ever taught us how to do that. I can’t recall a single instance in my entire life where someone told me how to avoid sexual assault. They taught me how to protect someone else and reminded me not to use my strength to hurt someone else. But protect myself?

He stops talking.

A gentle hiss comes through the speakers. A soft static hum, but nothing else.

What is he thinking? At that moment, were his eyes shut? Was he crying? Is his finger on the stop button, hoping for the strength to press it? He’s nine tapes in…could this be the final straw? What is he doing?

I can’t see him. I can only guess.

Never.

His voice is angry. Almost trembling.

I know that tone. That’s the tone he uses—used—when he was upset but was trying to hold it in and keep composure.

Maybe if someone had taken the time, things would be different.

Hannah Asher…you’re getting nervous.

Hannah Asher? Our PR representative?

No. He can’t. He can’t bring Management into this. Management can’t know about the things on these tapes.

But if I have the tapes…he already did.

Yes, Ms Asher. This tape is about you. And if you think I’m being silly—if you think I’m being some stupid little boy who got his knickers in a wad over the tiniest things, taking everything way too seriously, no one’s making you listen. Sure, I am pressuring you with that second set of tapes, but who cares if the world knows what you think of me?

In the houses we pass by, families are finishing dinner and getting ready for bed. Everything is normal for them.  It strikes me as funny how much my life and my world has changed—and how little anyone else’s has. It’s not very surprising that when I start laughing, Liam gets worried.

“Lou? You alright there?”

I wave him off and try to explain. “Everything is so normal for everyone else…and we’re sitting here with Harry’s suicide tapes.”

I can name a whole list of people who would care. I can name a list of people who would care very much if these tapes got out. Keep in mind, there are eight people who alreadyknow this story. And the whole world will know if you don’t pass this on. Then your career really will be over…because who in their right mind would trust someone who assaulted a client?

Because yes…that is what you did.

The granola bar has settled unpleasantly in my stomach. Liam notices the expression on my face.

“If you need me to pull over, I will.”

“No. Keep going.”

It started in earnest a year ago, when you, Ms Asher, began to work with us. You were in your mid-thirties, and very good at what you did. That’s why our management team recruited you—you could keep any rumors quashed, and with an incredibly popular boyband, rumors were par for the course.

But did you really think those rumors gave you permission to do what you did?

She didn’t rape me, don’t worry. But she got pretty close.

I hug my knees tighter and bite down on my lip.

In addition to your talent for managing boybands, you also had a thing for me. I ignored your flirty looks, but then you slowly began invading my space. And one day, when I had a solo interview, you held me back from the other boys. You invaded my personal space and kissed me. I shoved you off. You grabbed my ass. Not smacked it, like the boys were prone to do. You grabbed it and squeezed and then told me you were ‘just playing around’.

Let’s do a quick role-reversal here. Were you the young, pretty, female celebrity and I the older, managing male guardian and I’d done to you what you did to me, I would have been fired so fast I wouldn’t have had time to react. But because you were female and I was male, it didn’t work out like that.

I’m starting to understand. I’m starting to see what Harry meant. And that opens up a black hole in the pit of my stomach.

Ms Asher had always been nice and polite to all of us. And it was so difficult to see her as the instigator in a situation like this…to believe she was hurting Harry like that. It was even more difficult to realize that all this happened under our noses and we didn’t notice anything. Or call a stop to it.

So why didn’t it?

Well, two reasons. One, I never reported it. Who would believe me? My reputation preceded me. You could just say it was my idea and while we both might get reprimanded, nothing really bad would happen. And two….I didn’t know how to deal with it. I’d never been taught how to deal with it. And by the time I figured it out, it was too late.

You knew my reputation. That’s why you went after me, and not one of the other boys. You’d believed the Caroline rumor—Eleanor, thanks for that, by the way—and you believed every other rumor. You believed I would be alright with your proposition and would carry on an affair with you.

Lights flash behind us; Liam eases over to the side of the road and stops.

The first time, I just shoved you away. The second time, I told you in no uncertain terms that I was not comfortable with any of this.

So why didn’t you back off?

Someone taps on the window; Liam rolls down the window to speak with them.

I said no and you took it as a challenge. You continued grabbing my ass and asking. When I told you off, you told me you were joking around and I was taking it too seriously.

I wasn’t joking, Ms Asher. I asked you to stop. And you didn’t. That was that.

“Something wrong with your friend?”

“He knocked his head pretty hard when we were wrestling at our mate’s place,” Liam explains. “I was taking him home.”

“Alright. Drive carefully, then.”

I did some research on what the punishment for groping me was. Ten years in prison, Ms Asher. In fact, I was going to present you with that information before something else happened.

Fanmail.

Liam merges back into traffic.

I began to notice a pattern. If I was with the other boys, you wouldn’t act. If I sat next to Niall, you’d give me dirty looks but would back off. If I sat next to Liam, you wouldn’t even attempt those. So, during our weekly PR meetings, Liam became my temporary best friend. So you had to get to me in other ways. And that’s where fanmail came in.

I glance over at Liam in surprise—after Liam’s tape, I would have expected Harry to stay as far away from Liam as possible. But if Ms Asher’s actions were so bad that Harry would willingly spend time close to someone he wasn’t entirely comfortable with, what did that say about her actions?

And what did it say about us that we didn’t notice she was doing this to him?

Fanmail is really important to us. It’s how we communicate and get real feedback from fans. If they take the time to write us a real letter, they care enough to notice things we might not. We get the kindest and most encouraging messages from actual paper letters.

I loved getting letters. It was the best part of my day, someone telling me their honest (and usually positive) opinion. It was a frivolous ego boost—and by that time, I needed the ego boost. I needed someone to tell me I was funny and hot—I needed someone to tell me there wasn’t anything wrong with me.

And so when I began sitting near Liam, you began new tactics. You’d hold back my letters and keep me after a meeting, where you would try again. So I stopped reading fanmail—foregoing those small encouragements that were keeping me going—anything to avoid you.

The car turns left and my body rolls with it—when I lift my head, I see we’re five blocks from the building where we had our weekly publicity meetings.

I close my eyes—I don’t want to see the memorial I know is outside that building.

I don’t know why you thought that was acceptable, taking my mail away from me. By that time, I was at the end of my rope, and I needed any fan support I could get.

And you kept that from me. You decided I didn’t deserve it.

When withholding fanmail didn’t do anything, you stopped passing on phone calls. That was alright—not many people tried to contact me through you.

But when you very intentionally didn’t tell me that my sister had been in a car crash? That pushed me closer to the edge. For those of you who don’t know, my sister and I are very close. We text, we call, and if anything is wrong, we’re the first ones there to make sure everything is okay.

And I didn’t know. My sister almost died and you didn’t tell me. That’s another charge: guardian fraud.

The car pulls to a stop, but Liam doesn’t attempt to speak. My head is still down, my eyes still closed.

But this entire story? It all winds back to Jenna. It all backtracks to that first rumor Jenna spread about me. Sure, Eleanor helped it along, but nothing you did, Ms Asher, would have happened had Jenna never spread that first rumor.

That’s not an excuse for your actions, Ms Asher. But it was all the excuse you needed to act against me.

Ms Asher, you won’t send the tapes to number ten. He’s already had them. Send them to number eleven—you’ll find the proper address in the letter you should have received two weeks before you hear these tapes. If not, look her up. You’ve got the contacts. You can find her.

And enjoy your stay in hell, Ms Asher. I might even see you there.

End of Tape 9

When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is the memorial set up to Harry. The flowers and photographs are lit up by a yellow streetlamp. I’m suddenly struck by how different everything feels…Harry really is gone.

“I never missed him until now,” I’m finally able to say, my voice hoarse. “I mean, I did…but not really.”

Liam looks at me suddenly, a question in his eyes. “Kind of like he was just off on vacation?”

I nod. “Exactly. And now…he’s gone. He’s really truly gone.”

I got out of the car and walked over to the memorial. The flowers were beginning to wilt and the ink on the photographs was fading. I kneel and pick up a silver bracelet someone had left on a burnt-out candle.

We’d had a memorial. We’d all gathered and said farewell speeches, all of us too much in shock to cry. There were fans there who cried, but the four of us who had spent the past four years seeing him every day, we couldn’t.

Harry’s family had his body. They hadn’t invited us to a funeral, but that was understandable. He was their only son, and we had killed him, in the way we lived and who we were. He would have been alive if it weren’t for us—and so we hadn’t gone.

His death seems so much more profound when the only thing that’s left of him is faded photographs and dying flowers, under a streetlight on a deserted road.

I wipe away tears and flip the tape.

Sometimes, promises are made to be broken. Sometimes, there are burdens one can’t carry alone—and sometimes, there are poisons in your veins you can’t help but need to bleed out.

For those of you who have never cut—I assume that’s most of you, or all of you, actually—you don’t know how freeing it can be, to press a blade into your skin and feel everything in your world narrow down to just that cut, seeping blood.

I bite my lip hard enough for my own blood to well up, filling my mouth with a bitter iron tang. I lick my lips to keep the blood from dripping and taste tears as well.

I should never have started again. But with everything building up on top of me just then? I needed something, anything, and cutting did that for me. I know so many of you are disgusted with me for hurting myself. But it is—was—easier to deal with everything when it was me causing the pain and not someone else.

It was just easier for that to be my outlet. And it’s always been easier—and better—for me to take my problems out on myself rather than anyone around me.

I wish he had taken it out on me. I was always there and I would have helped, had I known. The problem was that I didn’t notice, though.

Liam comes to sit with me, settling cross-legged on the pavement.

“How long until mine?”

Liam doesn’t reply.

Number Ten. Niall.

I told you that you would make a reprisal on these tapes. You know why you’re here. You’ve always known why you’d be here. In fact, this is what you thought you were here for the first time. In a way, what you did was a second betrayal. It hurt me more the second time than the first—your secret weighed me down, but your knowledge made it worse.

You found me cutting. You found me in the bathroom on the tour bus, with a razor blade dangling from my fingertips and blood swirling down the drain. You found me dangling by a thread and for a moment—a single moment—you caught some of the slack. Too bad that didn’t last long.

Snip snip, baby.

What did he mean by that?

You heard me crying and pushed open the door. You found me curled up in the corner and sat with me, swabbing my cuts clean with rubbing alcohol and bandaging them up. You confiscated my razor blade and told me never to do it again.

You swore that if you ever found me doing this again, you were going straight to management, your own secret be damned. Niall, you had no idea—the only thing I wanted was for someone to tell on me, for someone to take my problems away from me and let someone else deal with them. I couldn’t do it myself—I couldn’t admit my problems to myself even then.

I think that’s why I kissed you.

Niall and Harry…kissed?

I blink, trying to process this. I don’t know why this hurts so much—Harry wasn’t mine. He’s never been mine. And after this, he certainly never will be. But I sure as hell don’t feel alright with Niall kissing him, especially when Harry was so broken.

You were lost then too, fighting a losing battle with your own disease. We were both being destroyed from the inside out, and we were both so hopelessly lost that we must have seemed like lifeboats to the other.

Turns out the destroyed can’t save the wrecked.

I could feel your ribs when my bandaged hands reached for your waist. Your fingers were slick with my blood. And we got lost in each other.

I close my eyes. It hurts to even think about that. I don’t want to.

When I woke up, you were gone. At breakfast, nothing you said, nothing you did ever indicated you were even going to bring it up. But I knew you were there—my hickey was on your neck, and my arms were bandaged in the way I never could have myself.

That was when I made my decision. I was going to end everything.

Hanging was too messy; there was no gun I could get a hold of easily; a car crash would be written off as a mistake. So I decided.

Pills.

That’s what he did use—a bottle of anti-depressants and two of sleeping pills.

I just realized. I won’t be here…tomorrow. Tomorrow, there won’t be a Harry Styles. Tomorrow will be my last day. I’ll know…and you won’t. I wonder if you—any of you—will notice something different about me.

What was the last thing you said to me? Do you remember the last thing I said to you? It might have seemed casual, but believe me…it was deliberate. The last thing I say to you was the last thing I said for a reason.

“Have fun, Lou. I’ll be here when you get back.”

That was the last thing he said to me.

I think it hurts worse now, with the tapes. At least before I could pretend it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. With the tapes, I know it was deliberate. And that hurts worse than anything else I’ve heard.

After I do it, after I kill myself, I don’t know where I’ll end up. Not heaven, that’s for sure. But I don’t know if I even believe in an afterlife.

I quite like the idea of reincarnation. Another chance, another life. I’d like that. I’d like a chance at another life, another body. A chance to do everything right—not as me, and not in the same ways. But a chance to become someone who can survive.

I hope that’s where he went, reborn into another life.

I flip over the bracelet and notice it’s has something engraved on it.

No one ever dies, so long as they took the time to leave us with fond memories.

I slip it up my wrist, where it rests against the handmade fan bracelets I’ve worn since we all started as a group.

A part of me hopes there’s nothing. Just endless black. I could do with a good, long nap right about now. Going to sleep and never waking up sounds about perfect. There’s so much noise in my head that silence—even eternal silence—would be beautiful.

But if I do end up in hell, know I’d be glad. Anything would be better than this hopelessness. Anything would be better than knowing no one cared. Any life would be better than this one.

End of Tape Ten

There’s only so much crying you can do before you just run out of tears, and I’ve finally reached that point.

A woman in a business suit rushes out of the building, her hair straggling out of her bun. She doesn’t give us—or the memorial—a second glance. It’s Hannah Asher, and she looks pale and tired. Now that I think about it, that’s how she’s looked for the past four or five days, probably since she got the tapes. Kind of like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Who else is on these tapes, and how bad could it possibly be?

Liam notices the bracelet and flips it over to read the inscription—it’s not a feminine bracelet, but it isn’t exactly masculine, either—and snorts as he reads it.

“Except he didn’t take the time to leave ‘fond memories’ behind,” Liam says wryly. “He left painful ones.”

“We hurt him, though. Pretty badly.”

Liam looks up to see Ms Asher put a key in her car door. “Apparently Zayn put a rock through her window,” he says blankly.  He closes his eyes and tips his head back, skin washing yellow in the streetlight. “I found out when I got the tapes. He stayed with me—Niall stayed with him. Now I’m with you. Funny how our friendships got stronger by the secrets Harry thought would break us.”

I don’t have a reply, but I understand what he means. “What doesn’t break us makes us stronger,” I murmur. Liam’s head snaps so he can look at me before he shoves to his feet. I follow. “Where are we going next?”

“It’s an apartment complex twenty minutes from here.” He bites his lip. “Tough tape.”

I laugh humorlessly. “Aren’t they all?”

Surprisingly, Liam grins. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

I don’t listen to the tapes on the drive to wherever we’re going. Instead, Liam and I talk, discussing the hows, the whys, what we missed and what we could have done. Somehow, we begin to talk about where it all began for the five of us, back at the X-Factor. We pull up in front of an apartment complex, a tall brick building. Liam gestures to the 24-hour McDonalds farther down the block, across from a hotel.

“I’m going to go get food.” He doesn’t say anything else, just pauses half-way out the door and watches me carefully.

“I’ll stay here, listen to the tape.”

Liam nods and leaves me in the car with a yellow walkman, a book of poetry and the last recorded words of my dead best friend.

Just three more to go. Don’t give up on me now.

I’m sorry. I guess that’s an odd thing to say. Because isn’t that what I’m doing? Giving up?

Yes. As a matter of fact, I am. And that, more than anything, is what this comes down to. Me…giving up…on me. No matter what I’ve said so far, no matter who I’ve spoken of, it all comes back to—it all ends with—me. Well. Me and one other person. But it’s not his turn yet, and when it is…you’ll all understand so much more than if I told you now.

I close my eyes and lean back against the seat. Who’s this other person? Am I wrong to hope it’s not me?

There are only three tapes left, including this one, and so far everything I’ve heard on this tape seems like it just might finally be mine.

If it’s not…when will I come up? When will I find out what I did?

Bad things happen to everyone. Sometimes good things become bad things. And when that kind of thing breaks, there is nothing that can cause it to heal.

Which brings me to one of my very last weekends. The weekend following Niall’s and my…affair, for lack of a better word. The memories from that weekend still make me feel sick to my stomach.

Not all of my memories are like that, mind you.

I should hope not. I’d like to think there were some good memories between us as a group before everything collectively went downhill. But knowing the way these tapes end—with Harry’s death—makes it seem so much more unlikely.

There are some memories that are freeing, and some that are terrifying. There are experiences that one may have that provide nothing but pain and others that make you smile just at the mere thought of them. Some memories give you strength to carry on and others drag you down.

Sleeping with Niall helped a lot. We didn’t do anything besides kiss and jerk each other off, but it helped, having a physical release of pent-up tension. I wasn’t about to let my reputation become who I actually was, though. That was asking for more pain, more hurt—not to mention that Management would kill me very, very dead. I wouldn’t even have to do it myself.

I will admit I was curious. The only people I’d ever had sex with were people I cared about, immensely so, and I wanted to know if casual sex was as good as people said it was. I wanted to know if it was worth the rumors and the dirty looks and everything bad I’d been through.

But then that meant…

My split lip burst open again as I bit down once more, sending a fresh taste of iron into my mouth. I swore and scrabbled for the box of tissues Liam kept under the passenger seat.

I just wanted to feel good again.

Being a legal-age celebrity means one gets invited to a lot of high-profile parties and clubs. Attending these parties are other famous people—or at least people with enough money to get through the door.

It was at one of these parties I ran into Caroline Flack.

God, no. This can only end one way. If anyone can shovel more shit into Harry’s life, it’s Caroline.
I swallow the blood and dab at the cut, wincing as it stings. I know exactly what party Harry meant now.

We’d only seen Caroline twice recently—once a month and a half ago, and once at Harry’s memorial. But as far as I knew, nothing had happened with Caroline at that last meeting. We’d been at the same club, nothing more.

There’d been rumors about us for a long time, but they’d mostly died down two years before, when we both denied it. There had never been anything between us in the first place—another rumor started by Eleanor—and Management had let it go, because at that time, any publicity was good publicity.

Caroline, it was a bit of a shock to see you there. You didn’t frequent the party scene as much as you could have, and given our ages and respective jobs, we rarely ran in the same circles.
I had been planning on meeting a random girl, but seeing you there? That was the perfect opportunity to see if the rumors really were true—if you were really the best fuck I’d had in my life, seeing as nothing had happened the first time around.

I remember that party. We all got mind-blowingly drunk and had fun. Liam wasn’t drinking, as usual, but he was more relaxed than he usually was.

I flirted with a girl named Claire—Zayn got the phone number of a girl named Becky, whom he started dating before everything went to hell. He’d been out with her the night Harry committed suicide.

I honestly wasn’t expecting you to hurry my plan along. I wasn’t expecting you to flirt with me. I wasn’t expecting you to proposition me. I wasn’t expecting you to be there for the same reason I was: preying on someone to lose yourself. You weren’t expecting to find me. But you did, counting on alcohol to lower your target’s reasoning skills. You knew what you were doing. You knew exactly what you wanted and how you were going to get it.

You weren’t drunk or even tipsy.

What you didn’t know was: neither was I. I looked like I was taking shots with everyone else, but mine were water. They’d been water for a while. I had the unfortunate habit of telling secrets when drunk and I didn’t want anyone to know what I was planning. Not my plans for that night, and not my plans for the next few days.

It would have ruined a lot.

I get out of the car and walk up to the brick wall of the complex, running my fingers along it. It’s rough and textured, anchoring me to earth.

When we bumped into each other, I could see the exact moment you decided I was your target for that evening. Something shifted in your eyes and you immediately latched onto my arm, batting your eyelashes and lowering your voice so I was forced to lean in.

You flirted and I flirted back. I used the kind of charm I always used when I was actually drunk. You pulled me up to dance and we did. And not just dancing like so many of the other couples. You ground your pelvis onto my hipbone and I let you. We danced dirtily enough that Liam dragged me away for a minute to give me a lecture on public appearance—another Daddy Direction moment I certainly did not want, need, or appreciate—before you dragged me back onto the dance floor.

And then you invited me to your home.

When I open my eyes, I want to be sitting on the rooftop. I don’t want to see any more of the streets Harry walked the night of that party—I don’t want to see any more of the places where Harry lost hope.

I’m not stupid. I knew what you meant to do, and I agreed to go. Your flat was only two blocks away, so we walked. We left through the back door and no one ever knew we were gone.

Or…they never knew I was gone. You’ll find out what I mean by that in just a minute.

He was right. We never even knew he’d left—he must have only been gone for an hour, maximum.

Once we reached your apartment, you flashed me a dirty grin and pushed me against a wall, kissing me hard. I let you, although I didn’t kiss back.

You must have chalked it up to me being “drunk”, not knowing I was entirely sober, because you kept going.

You backed me down the hallway, into a room with a bed made with yellow sheets and an orange duvet. And that’s when you pounced, pushing me down, sucking on my neck, your hands slipping down the front of my pants. Testing the boundaries, I guess. Finding out if I really was a slut.

I punch the wall. The skin on my knuckles splits, blood dripping to stain the concrete.

I clenched my jaw and you moved back a hair, as if judging my reaction. I forced myself to relax. Just as fast, your fingertips were back.

No, your whole hand was back, and when I didn’t stop you, you slid your hand under my shirt, feeling the muscles in my stomach and carefully helped me out of it, tugging your own over your head and tossing them both to the side.

You guided my hand to your belly, spreading my fingers so my pinky dipped under the waistband of your trousers and my thumb tucked under your bra. And then you slid off your pants and unzipped mine, kissing me again.

Caroline must have known something was wrong. She had to have noticed—but she still kept going. And Harry just…let her.

People passing by pause to look at me funny before hurrying on their way. I suppose my tired, tear-reddened eyes don’t encourage anyone to look too long, especially when my hand and lip are both bloody.

I should have been enjoying this. I was supposed to be enjoying this. But instead…I just felt…wrong. It didn’t feel right without the emotion behind it.

For the record, I never told her to stop. I never said ‘no’. But I certainly never said ‘yes’ either. I never pushed her away. All I did was turn my head, clench my teeth and fight back tears. And she saw that. She even told me to relax.

I slam my fist against the brick wall again. Something crunches—and it wasn’t the wall. I swear, more violently this time. I tighten my fist and lift it in front of my face. Through my teary eyes, I watch the blood squeeze through my fingers. The skin is cut deep in a few places, but nothing seems to be broken.

“Relax, Harry,” you whispered, leaning forward, your hair tickling my neck and face. “Everything will be okay.” As if fucking you would solve all my problems.

You had to see my jaw clench. You had to see my tears. Does that kind of shit turn you on, Caroline?

Caroline? Probably.

But I needed this. And so, just like that, I let go. My shoulders went limp, and I let you do whatever you wanted. I knew exactly what I was doing.

You were touching me…but I was using you. I needed you, so I could let go of me, completely.

Not once had I given in to my reputation. Not once had I let rumors decide how I behaved and who I chose to be friends with. Not once…until now.

So, congratulations, Caroline. How does it feel being the one I gave in to my reputation with? No, don’t answer that. I won’t hear your reply anyways. But let me say this first: I was not attracted to you, Caroline. Ever. In fact, you disgusted me.

Cool hands grab my shoulder as I go to punch the wall again. When I turn, I see Liam carefully inspecting my knuckles like he’d done earlier, when I’d punched him.

The paper bag of McDonalds food is on the ground between us, forgotten when Liam went to stop me.

He leaves for a moment and returns with a first aid kit—of course Daddy Direction has a first aid kit in the back of his car. He dumps sanitizer on the cut and wraps it tightly in a bandage.

Once you were done, I gathered up my clothes, tucked you under the blanket, fixed my hair and left. I went back to the club, found the other boys and went home.

The night was over. I was done.

My reputation had finally caught up to me. I finally was exactly what people said I was.

End of Tape Eleven

I tear the headphones off and pull out of Liam’s grasp. I march over to a trashcan and make to shove the entire set of tapes and walkman into the trash. Liam drags me back.

“You don’t want to do that, Louis.”

“Why, Liam? Why keep listening, if they’re just going to get worse?”

“Well.” Liam’s eyes are serious, and sad, and honest. “Because you’re up next.”

Slowly, still watching Liam’s expression, I flip the tape and press play.

There was a pause before Harry began speaking, where the only sound was the hum of the headphones and his breathing in time with my own. When he did speak, he sounded tired.

Romeo, Romeo. Wherefore art thou Romeo?

This is how my tape begins. This is how my story interlinks with Harry’s.

Liam’s gaze drops to study his shoes.

I guess that makes me Juliet. But I know my story isn’t like Romeo and Juliet’s—although, like theirs, and like I said earlier, mine is not a love story. It is a story about love, but it is not a love story. So far, you haven’t seen the love side of my story. And here…here is where it becomes about love.

I don’t understand. How is my tape the one about love? Harry didn’t love me.

I never understood why people thought Romeo and Juliet were so romantic. They both die because they didn’t communicate—and they were fourteen. Six whole years younger than I am now. Which is just stupid. Everyone knows young love doesn’t last. Love in general doesn’t last—how many times have I witnessed that?

But my story does end like Romeo and Juliet’s…with suicide. How many of you know this isn’t the first time I’ve tried to kill myself?

He tried to kill himself before?

There was another attempt before this recording. I was lucky, I suppose. Or unlucky, if you think about it. Before I recorded these tapes, I had a regular old letter.

I had plans to kill myself on the thirteenth of January. I had two bottles of pills stashed under my bed, my letter written out, my schedule clear. There wouldn’t be another opportunity for another two weeks and I was scared if I didn’t do it then, I wouldn’t.

Oh, God.

I remember that day. I had no idea what he’d been planning to do.

I close my eyes and bow my head. Liam puts his hand on my shoulder, letting me know he’s there. I shrug it off and move to lean against the wall.

And so on January 13^th, I was ready. I’d called my mum the night before, told her I loved her. I’d spent the night out with the boys, just having fun.

I was ready to go.

But something—someone—stopped me. Someone stopped me that day, someone didn’t give me a chance to be alone that day.

That was me. I’d been there—I’d stopped him one time.

Why didn’t I stop him the next time?

That someone had no clue what they were doing, that they were saving me for just a little while longer. That someone made me realize how much I was—I am—leaving behind. And how much I have to explain. How you all have to know about everything that happened—or else you all would keep on doing it, driving some other poor soul to the edge, leaving them there to die.

Louis. Louis fucking Tomlinson.

What did I ever do to deserve you, Louis?

Nothing. If anything, I’m the one that didn’t deserve you, if only because I had you and then let you go.

To be honest, I never looked at him and said to myself “Louis Tomlinson, he’s the one.” He wasn’t. He isn’t.  But he is very, very important to me and the story I have to tell.

That’s why you’re here, Louis. On that last day, you woke me up early. I was confused, terrified that you’d somehow figured out—because out of everyone who could know, you were the one I was most scared of leaving behind—but you simply shoved a sweatshirt into my hands and insisted we had to go, now.

I had wanted my friend back, then. I didn’t really think what I was doing when I did it. I was a bit hungover from the night before—the night of the party we went to where Harry slept with Caroline Flack—and shook him awake, handing him my sweatshirt.

He’d blinked up sleepily and confused—I’d smiled and dragged him out the door in his pajama pants and my sweatshirt.

The sun hadn’t even risen yet, but you wanted me to see the sunrise up on the roof of our building. Even in London it was beautiful, reds and pinks and grays against the blue sky. You put your hand in mine and smiled—and off we went.

Did you know? I don’t think you did. You were just being Louis and you’d noticed I’d been sad lately, so you wanted to make me smile again. And I did, that day. You wanted us to have some fun together, you and me, me and you. We went everywhere, did all the touristy things we never got the chance to do—Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, Madame Tussauds. Can you believe we’d lived in London for three years and never seen any of it?

At Madame Tussauds, we stopped randomly and stood still in the hallways—a dozen different girls stood by us for pictures without realizing we were the real Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles, not wax people.

One girl reached for Harry’s hair and nearly passed out when she realized he was an actual human. Harry doubled over laughing and gave her an autograph as apology.

He seemed so happy then.

It ended up being a perfect day.

Catharsis for both of us: you were finally over Eleanor; I was finally over living.

We explored, you and me. I almost forgot what I planned to do. Almost, being the key word. And at the end of it, we went up to the rooftop, forty dizzying stories high to watch the sun set.

I was so surprised when the roof access door was still open from that morning. But it was, and there was no one there, just us.

There you were. You had your arm slung over my shoulder, my head resting on yours. You were there, letting me live for another day, letting me know exactly what I was missing. We talked, about everything and nothing. You were exactly what I needed.

So I kissed you.

No, I kissed you, Harry.

A sweet, slow kiss. And what did you say when we came up for air? You smirked in the most beautiful way possible and asked, “What was that for?”

Right. You kissed me.

To which I said “You’re such an idiot.” And we kissed some more.

I suppose you’re wondering why I’m still going to end my life, even though he gave me a perfect day. I suppose you’re furious at me, Louis, because you could have helped.

Well, no. I wish…I wish it were that easy.

Louis, when you kissed me, it felt like I could start over with you. New beginning, new love, new everything. You’d been with me four years, four years of friendship perpetually teetering on the edge of something more. Four years of friendship and trust and a place we called home.

The sad edge to his voice has melted away, replaced by something like wistfulness, and my chest clenches at the feeling of it. If he felt he could have started over, why didn’t he?

Why didn’t he tell me?

I wanted to tell you. Everything. And that hurt, because some things were too scary. Something I didn’t even understand myself. How could I tell someone—even someone I trusted so implicitly—everything I was thinking?

I couldn’t. It was too soon. Or maybe…it was too late.

His voice isn’t soft anymore.  He might want me to hear these tapes and not blame myself, but the only thing left in his voice is bitterness.

And that hurts more than any secret he could have told.

I couldn’t let you be dragged down by my secrets or the burdens I carried. You had to know for us to have anything worth keeping together, but you’ve always been so light that I couldn’t be the one to ruin that for you. I couldn’t stick around to see how knowing my secrets darkened your light…but I still had to tell you.

And that’s why these tapes. They’re not meant to hurt you—any of you, save Number Thirteen. They’re meant to explain to him exactly what happened to the boy who fell in love with him.

Because yes…I fell in love with you, Louis.

A gasp escapes my mouth and I slide down the wall, closing my eyes against the tears that threaten to spill over.

No.

Please, no.

I’m sorry. You don’t belong here. You don’t belong on this set of tapes. But here you are, nonetheless.

When you kissed me, I kissed back. I let us get closer and closer, and it felt like flying. It was wonderful, both of us standing on the rooftop, your hands spanning my hips, my fingers curling into your hair, trying to pull you closer. And speaking for myself, I wanted more.

I lean forward, clasping my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. But I do scream, the sound dampened by the palm of my hand.

Liam doesn’t even react, other than to lean his head back against the nearby lamppost.

But names began to flit into my head, incidents and mistakes and secrets, just floating there, like lanterns on a bit of string. And they wouldn’t go away.

There were so many names, Louis. Three or four dozen at least.

“Stop,” I told you. And my hands stopped pulling you in.

But you didn’t move your hands, and you didn’t open your eyes.

I shut my eyes so tight it was painful, trying to push away all that I was seeing in my head. But it didn’t work—I kept seeing everyone on this list…and more. Everyone up to that night, everything that made me hurt so much. And remembering just made it hurt worse.

“Stop,” I repeated. This time I actually did push you away.

I stumbled as you shoved me away. I remember that.

You started to talk, but I made you stop. I screamed for you to get away, and slowly, you did. You were confused, and rightfully so. You didn’t know I was hurting and guilty. You didn’t know I was remembering Jenna and Bridget, Liam and Zayn, Danielle and Eleanor, Niall and Caroline, Hannah Asher and Cher Lloyd. You didn’t know the names and incidents that were flying through my head—dozens and dozens that haven’t even made it onto these tapes. You had no idea.

All you knew was that I was screaming at you to leave…and you had no idea why.

And you did. But it took you a long while for you to realize I was serious.

He faced away from me. I couldn’t see any expression on his face. I took so long because I was just waiting for him to call me back, to say it was a joke.  I had been hoping he would tell me “stop” again. I was waiting for him to tell me to stop leaving.

I was so sure he hated me, that I had pushed things too far and our friendship wasn’t going to work after that.

After you left, after you finally gave me the distance I desperately didn’t want but equally desperately needed, I stepped closer to the edge. I looked down, to see the people scurrying below me. I considered jumping, just ending it then and there.

Why did I listen? Why did I leave him there? He needed me, and I knew that.

But I was scared. Once again, I let myself get scared, and I walked away.

But I didn’t. I needed to explain to you. I needed to record these tapes. I needed to apologize to you, to explain.

By then, though, it was too late. You slept at Zayn’s that night, and the next morning, everything was exactly how it had been before—friends, teetering on the edge of something more.

And yes, Louis—I’m sorry, too.

End of Tape 12

The tape ends with a definite click, then flips over and begins to tell Caroline’s story again. I pause it with shaking fingers and look up at Liam.

“Are you going to be okay?” He asks, softly.

I shake my head no. “I miss him.” I close my eyes against the memories I thought I’d buried.

I hear him move to sit next to me, stretching his legs out. There’s no one on the street, save a lone figure wrapped in a coat nearly a block away, on the other side of the street.

When I open my eyes, his head is down. Is he crying? Or maybe trying not to cry.

“We all do.”

“Thing is…I never really missed him until now.” I shake my head. “I didn’t know, I swear to you I didn’t.”

Liam doesn’t reply, just pulls me in for a hug. Finally, he shrugs. “Only one tape to go, and there’s a park down the street. Do you want to go there?”

“As good a place as any, I suppose.”

We make it half a block before a female voice yells after us.

“Liam! Louis! Louis, Liam, hey, stop!”

We both freeze, turning to see Gemma Styles running up behind us.

“Hi, Gemma,” Liam says cautiously. He exchanges a look with me—we don’t know what she wants. None of the Styleses have been in contact since before Harry’s death.

“Oh, thank God I found you, I’ve been running all over London trying to track you two down!” she says breathlessly, catching up to me and Liam. “Okay, I need caffeine to deal with this. Boys, forward march, there’s a Starbucks two blocks from here.”

The walk is quiet and brisk, Gemma humming tunelessly to herself.

“Harry was very complex,” Gemma says, after ordering a large black coffee, same as Harry always did. “You two want anything?” When we both shake our heads, she shrugs and hoists her bag further up on her shoulder. A minute later, she accepts the cardboard cup. “Where was I? Oh, right. Harry was infinitely complex. There were a lot of things you didn’t know about him…a lot of things no one knew about him.”

She took a long pull of coffee, sighing happily. “God, I love caffeine. Anyway, Harry had problems and he didn’t know how to deal. So he did what he could.” She pauses in her speech to drink more coffee. “And then he sent those tapes. I have the other set, actually. I’m not entirely sure why he chose me, but he did. Maybe he thought I’d play along because I’m his sister.” She smiles wryly. “Sorry, I’m rambling. I get like that when I’m tired.”

Her eyes were the same shade of green as Harry’s, but hers seemed cooler. And surprisingly, she didn’t seem upset so much—stressed, maybe, and tired. But then again, Styleses were good under pressure, right up until they snapped.

“It’s okay.” Liam says. “You deserve to be a little rambly.”

“No, I don’t.” She shrugs her bag up her shoulder again. “None of us do. Anyway, come on,” Gemma says, draining her coffee cup and tossing it into the nearby bin. “I’ve got something to show you.”

I look down at the walkman—only one story left to go, tape 13—and follow her, Liam immediately tagging alongside.

“Like I said, Harry was infinitely complex. If he believed something was right, it was right. But if something was wrong, he wouldn’t acknowledge it until someone forced him to. We all knew Harry had depression—it’s a genetic family thing, I’ve got it too—but he lightened up so much with you four that we assumed he was taking his meds and feeling better.

“Especially around you, Louis,” she adds, her stride lengthening. “He adored you, because you never gave a shit about his reputation. Everyone else cared, but you just loved him. We were absolutely thrilled when he moved in with you because you were such a positive influence, and you’d be around each other 24/7. Next thing we knew, the hospital was calling…”

“And Harry was gone,” I say, trying to keep up. Liam, of course, easily matches her stride. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Well,” Gemma says. “Everything.” She turns to a building and pushes open the doors. She leads us through a maze of hallways and finally pauses at a heavy wooden door. “A lot of things, really, but for starters…” She opened the door quietly. “Harry’s not dead.”

I freeze, gaping at the familiar face, the dark curls spilling out onto the crisp white pillow. Behind me, Liam chokes on air. “Jesus Christ.”

It’s Harry, it really is Harry. But he’s still, unmoving, save for the slight rise and fall of his chest that meant he was breathing. His hair was longer now, curling again, and his face was slightly stubbly. I would have thought he was sleeping if I didn’t know he slept like an eggbeater when things were alright. An IV drip is needled into his arm and the room is filled with the hum of hospital machines and the beeping of a heart monitor.

Beside his bed, his mother is sleeping in an armchair, her head tipped back. Unlike Harry, her foot twitches repeatedly, small telltale ticks that remind me what things are like when everyone is alright.

“He tried his hardest, but you found him just in time. Problem is, he hasn’t woken up and it’s been three weeks.”

“But why let everyone believe he was dead?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around this whole situation.

“We didn’t.” Gemma settles into the armchair across from her sleeping mother and brother. “Not intentionally, at least. A chain of events led to erroneous reporting and the public believing Harry had died.” She unwound her scarf, and for the first time, I noticed how tired she looked. “Here’s what actually happened: Harry overdosed, and passed out seconds before you walked in the door. You found him and the hospital was contacted quickly enough that they were able to pump his stomach in time. He just hasn’t woken up yet. But, some reporters saw the ambulance and caught wind of Harry’s overdose. Overdose plus ambulance plus no sign of Harry leaving the hospital plus a complete lack of an official statement equals some tabloid running a hypothesis that Harry was dead.

“Then you four appeared in public, obviously upset and without Harry. Follow that up with the announcement that you’re now a quartet and boom, everyone makes the cognitive leap that the tabloid must be right and Harry is dead.”

“So why didn’t you immediately correct everyone?” Liam asks, watching warily as I slip my hand into Harry’s limp one, stroking my thumb over his palm.

“We didn’t know. Mum and I were at the retreat until last Tuesday. Not this week, the week before. Sorry. Um, but we’ve been here ever since, working with the doctors to find treatment options, etc—this is a long term ward for comatose patients, by the way,” she explains belatedly. “We used the back door. Anyways, we were backed up with medical paperwork and different doctors and then a hospital transfer, and then there was the whole round of contacting family members to inform them of the situation. But by the time I finally left to go get clean clothes for Mum—the stuff in our suitcases finally ran out—it had been a week, and someone stopped me to console me on my brother’s death. I went home and found Hazza’s tapes waiting for me, so I listened to them, and that took a solid eight hours. I checked the gossip sites and answered a few emails and tried to do some damage control, but I couldn’t get ahold of Simon Cowell and I wasn’t going to post anything on Twitter until we were all very sure what exactly was going on.

“So then I decided to start tracking down the people with the tapes—I of course couldn’t go find Jenna or Bridget, and then Niall wasn’t answering his phone, but I managed to get ahold of Caroline—through Hannah Asher, by the way—who told me she’d sent the tapes on. She was really quite freaked out.

“And here’s the thing, on my set of tapes, there are only 12 sides, and 12 stories.  He recorded them twice, and you’re absent from my set of tapes, Louis. It skipped directly from Caroline to Simon —so I was out trying to contact Simon when Niall called and told me you had the tapes and Liam was with you. It hadn’t occurred to me that his tapes might have been different and so it took until I contacted Niall to realize you were on there too.”

Gemma sighs and leans forward in her chair to meet my eyes. “Plus, there’s the chance that Harry won’t survive. It’s been three weeks, and the doctors say if he hasn’t woken up in the next two weeks, he probably won’t make it. When you’re in a coma like that, you have to want to survive. And considering the circumstances…”

“He probably doesn’t want to survive,” Liam finishes. “What are you going to do?”

“Well, there’s a lot of things we can do. We can let people know he’s technically alive but probably won’t survive, or he might pull through and he might be up and going again. But what we need to worry about now, is the tapes. Louis, what do you think?”

“What? Why me?”

Gemma looks at me. “Ball’s in your court, Louis. Out of everyone here, you meant the most to Louis. You’re the one he seems to have cared about the  most.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean…you can choose to stop the tapes here. They don’t have to go on any more.”

“I haven’t finished the tapes, though.”

Gemma blushes. “Oh. How far are you?”

“I just finished my tape. I’ve only got one more to go.”

She sighs. “You should probably listen to that before making any decisions, then.” She turns to Liam. “Li, how did the others take it?”

Liam begins talking to her  in a hushed tone as I pull the headphones on and replace the tape.

One…last…try.

He’s whispering. The recorder is close to his mouth and with each break in his words, I can hear him breathe.

When I look over to the bed, Harry’s lungs are rising and falling in the same slow, steady pattern.

I’m giving life one more chance. And this time, I’m getting help. I’m asking for help because I cannot do this alone. I’ve tried that.

You weren’t alone—you could have talked to us. Any of us. We would have listened. I would have listened.

If anyone has the power to get me the help I need, it’s going to be him. But if he fails, then it’s all over. I’m done. If he succeeds, I’ll be getting the help I need. But of course, if you’re listening to this, he already failed.

His secretary cleared his schedule, and I have ten minutes. Ten minutes where he has the chance to save my life. Only one person stands between you and this collection of audiotapes: Simon Cowell.

Oh, god. He can’t know. Simon Cowell can’t be responsible for this.

Uncle Simon, let’s see how you do.

There is the sound of a zipper and a rustling of cloth. Then the zipper again, louder.

He’s shoving the recorder into something—from the sounds of it, a jacket pocket.  There are muffled footsteps, and then four knocks, evenly spaced, before a door clicks open and Harry speaks.

Hi, Uncle Simon. Thanks for seeing me today.

—No problem, Harry. My schedule was relatively clear and I’ve always got time for my boys. What can I help you with?

That’s just it. I don’t know for sure. Everything, I guess.

—That’s a lot to talk about in ten minutes.

Sorry.

—Don’t be. Is there anything smaller I can help you with?

Make him tell you, Simon. Make him tell you what’s wrong. Don’t give up, please.

I don’t know for sure.

—Alright. How about we start with how you feel.

Nothing.

—Pardon me?

I begin rubbing circles into Harry’s palm. Across from me, in the other armchair, Harry’s mum begins to stir, blinking rapidly.

Nothing. I feel nothing. Lost, I guess. Empty. I don’t care anymore.

—About?

When she sees me, she claps a hand to her mouth, but soon winds around the bed to hug me. Liam and Gemma pull her away.

Everything. I just can’t care anymore. Not about music, not about my family, not about the boys…anything.

—That can’t be true. There must be something you still care about. You and Louis are close, aren’t you? Don’t you care about him?

There is silence for a second, a distinct pause in Harry’s speaking pattern.

He’s the exception.

I blush, even though I now know how Harry felt.

It’s still surreal hearing these words—Harry’s words—but not seeing his mouth move. It’s almost more painful to see him lying there still than listening to the stories he chose to tell.

—Ah, see? You do care.

Not as much as I should, though.

—No one cares as much as they should. It’s a fault of the world. It’s a problem.

A laugh! Simon got Harry to laugh! But what happened in the rest of their conversation that made Harry give up?

I guess. I’m just…tired all the time.

—Are you boys being overworked? I know your schedule is busy, but I’m sure we could clear a day or so for you boys to relax some.

No, not that kind of tired.

— What kind of tired, then? I’m not sure I understand.

Me neither. But I’m tired of living, I guess.

—That’s a very serious statement. Are you sure you mean that?

Harry always means what he says, Simon, haven’t you noticed? He knew what he was saying.

I’m sure. I’m just tired.

—Let’s backtrack, then. How did we get here?

We? Or me?

—You, I suppose. How did you get here, then?

It’s always been like this.

—Always?

Always. And it’s only getting worse, what with—well. Never mind. It doesn’t matter.

But it does matter. Just listen to him, Harry, please.

A doctor comes into the room, and Liam talks to him for a few seconds before the man comes over to me and lifts my hand, checking it over.

—No, what is it?

It’s stupid, but…you know how there are rumors? Like rumors that start before and just keep going until they’re out of control.

—Yes…

The doctor walks away. I lean forward, closing my eyes.

Well, because of a rumor—and even before I got famous—things have happened to me, and they keep happening.

—What kinds of things?

Well. Like Caroline. And my fight with Liam.

—You fought with Liam?

Simon’s voice is rich with disbelief—obviously, he still thought all five of us were best friends and could never fight.

But that was characteristic of Simon. He saw what he wanted to see—and he only saw talent in Harry, not the person.

A while ago. It was because he thought I was getting in too late, but—

—Harry, there are curfews for a reason.

I know, but—

—And Liam looks out for you boys, or at least he tries to.

I know, but—

—And Harry, rumors are unavoidable. They happen to everyone. And you’re so lucky to have fame, friends, fortune…I’m sure this is just a passing feeling and you’ll feel alright in a few days. But I’ll schedule you to go see a therapist. We’ll find a set time and you can get help that way.

I bite my lip again, praying it won’t burst open again. Gemma gestures for me to take the headphones off, seeing the tears welling up in my eyes, but I shake my head no and continue listening.

How could Simon be so stupid?

But Uncle Simon, I-

—I have to run to a meeting now, but we’ll get you in to see one next week. It was ni—

That’s not what I need!

There is silence in the headphones after Harry’s outburst, and then Simon’s voice, chillingly calm.

— Then what do you need?

I don’t know.

Simon sighs.

—Harry, I’m trying to help you here. Talk to one of the boys and I’m sure you’ll feel better. In fact, why don’t you go spend some time with Liam? You said you two were fighting, and I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t soothe over with a few hours talking.

I just…I need help.

Harry’s voice is quiet, broken. How could Simon just walk away from that?

—And you’ll get it. I’ll see you at the lunch meeting next week, alright?

…alright.

The door clicks open, and then shut. I’m not sure who left—Simon or Harry. But then there’s footsteps and the sound of a zipper again. Harry’s voice is quiet but clearer, holding back tears.

There is silence as the footsteps pick up speed, and then the ding of an elevator door.

I’m leaving now. He’s not following. He doesn’t care enough. Maybe he’ll care once this is all over. Maybe he’ll care once I’m gone.

But I’m done. I tried and he failed and I’m done.

Maybe it’s ironic, or something. The one who made me broke me.

A lot of you cared. Just not enough.

I cared, Harry. I still care. And now, you have to wake up so I can tell you that.

And that…that is what I needed to find out.

And I did find out.

And I’m sorry.

End of Tape 13

The recorder clicks off.

I close my eyes and sigh.

I could send these tapes to Simon. But do I want him knowing our secrets? Can we trust him to even listen to these tapes? How long would it take him to hear them?

I’m not sure how long I sit there, just thinking.

But it’s long enough that the tape clicks over and there is the sound of a recorder whirring to life. Then Harry’s voice, light and soft.

Thank you.

I know what I’m going to do.

“I’m sending them,” I whisper softly. “The tapes. I’m sending them.”

Gemma nods, exhales. “Alright then. Mum, what do you think?”

Anne Cox’s eyes are cold. “Simon Cowell deserves to burn in hell for what he did to my baby.” Liam flinches and takes a step back. Her expression softens. “Not you boys. You didn’t know. But I talked to Simon way back at the beginning. He knew Harry might do something like this, and he let Harry go anyways.”

Liam nods in relief. “Okay. But seriously, Simon knew?”

“He knew. As did Paul, Ms. Asher, most of your management team…I thought you boys knew as well.”

“We didn’t,” I say at the same time that Liam shakes his head no. “But he survived, didn’t he? He’s alive.”

“We don’t know if he’ll wake up,” Gemma points out. “I honestly think we’ve just gotten to the point where we can only pray.”

“Sometimes hearing familiar voices helps,” Anne puts in. “But he hasn’t been responding to us.”

“Are we going to tell Niall and Zayn?” I wonder aloud. Anne simply shrugs wearily.

“I would assume so. Even after everything, you were his best friends.”

“How about I run back to the flat, pick up the box so we can ship the tapes to Simon and get Niall and Zayn at the same time?” Liam suggests. “If you need to, you can crash in my apartment, shower, or sleep, or something.”

Gemma sighs. “That would be nice, thank you, Liam.”

—

I doze off in the armchair sometime between when Gemma leaves with Liam and four AM. Anne is in the corner reading the newspaper when I fall asleep.

Three hours later, I’m woken by Niall yelping and Zayn cursing in disbelief.

“How?” Niall chokes out, staring at Harry. “How is this even possible?”

Zayn, meanwhile, freezes in the doorway. “Oh, my god.”

Liam laughs tiredly. “Exact same reaction we had. Morning, Anne, Louis, Harry.”

“How?” Niall asks.”Just…how?”

Anne gives the same explanation Gemma had, although hers includes more medical jargon and less information about the tapes.

When she finishes, Niall’s face lights up. “So he might still wake up?”

“It’s possible, not probable.”

Liam helps me pack the tapes and walkman into the shoebox, then neatly wraps the box in brown paper. He scribbles an address on the front—an address I don’t recognize, with a strange name above it. “It’s his personal,” he explains. “So he doesn’t get bombarded with fanmail and audition tapes and the like. He’ll actually open this, then. I put a note inside, too.”

“How do you know that address?” Zayn asks. Liam shrugs.

“He gave it to us a year ago.”

I take the package and leave, wandering out of the hospital. The kindly nurse at the desk directs me to a post office two blocks away.

The postbox is red, metal. It squeaks as I open it, and I hesitate. I stood in front of the mailbox and looked down at the package.

I’d only had it for eighteen hours, and it had already changed my life.

But it’s not the same as it was, eighteen hours ago. Now, it’s labeled with another name, a very fake name that will lead to a very real person. And that very real person is about to have their world turned upside down, just like mine was.

I drop it in.

Nothing left to do but follow through.

 

Chapter Text

It happens four days later. It's a long, tense four days, full of uncertainty and awkward conversations, everyone renegotiating boundaries, figuring out the new rules.

We’ve devised shifts, so Harry will never be alone. Niall and Liam are out dealing with Management and the press; Gemma is at Harry’s and my apartment, sleeping; Zayn is at his home, probably sleeping as well. It’s just Anne and me, waiting for something we can only hope will happen.

It has been four days of anticipation, of monotony, and boredom even. We don’t lose hope though—we can only hope. Medically, the doctors say there is no reason he hasn’t woken up. The only thing wrong with him is that he hasn’t.

Harry sighs and shifts.

Immediately, Anne presses the call button—Dr Frederick, the on-duty doctor we’ve come to know over the past few days, hurries in to check Harry’s vitals.

I duck into the hallway, leaving Anne to stay with him. I call Gemma first—she answers her cell phone drowsily but immediately wakes up when I mention that Harry is stirring.

Next are phone calls to Zayn (who doesn’t answer, probably sound asleep), one to Niall (who tells Liam) and my own mum, who’s been entirely informed of the situation.

Everyone agrees to get there as fast as they can.

I offer to stay out in the hallway, but Anne insists I stay in the room with her.

Harry stirs again as Gemma rushes in, hair unkempt, wearing one of Harry’s old hoodies and a pair of plaid pajama pants.

All four of us hold our breath as Harry’s expression starts to shift, and then—

Green eyes flutter open.