tw: substance abuse

Harry Styles

I still remember the day I auditioned for X Factor when I was sixteen.

I still remember the way sweat had collected thickly under the green scarf I'd chosen to wear that day.

I still remember the way I'd been so worried the microphone was going to slip out of my clammy hand or my hair would look funny on TV.

Out of all the things I'd been so worried about, I was the most nervous to perform knowing my mum and Gem would be there listening. I've read somewhere about the problem of performing in front of your close ones — it's simply because they're the only people you want to impress.

Thinking about it right now, I realize that's why I'm so frightened to appear on James Corden soon — I know for sure mum will be watching me sing through the TV.

Even if mum's been to dozens of my live shows, I seem to be extra nervous this time. Over the years, the performance anxiety has loosened, but it never leaves completely. Today, I feel like the same boy about to sing 'Isn't she lovely'.

I swallow thickly, my trembling hand pulling up my phone to check the time — 30 minutes and all of this unease will be over.

Amber's still not here.

"Harry, we need to call in another keyboardist." Jeff sighs, his own phone in his hand, ready to make the dreaded call to switch Amber.

"No way." I immediately speak up. "She'll come soon. Maybe her phone died. O-Or maybe there's heavy traffic." I try to find excuses as to why she still hasn't shown up, knowing full well she couldn't be stuck in traffic because she doesn't drive cars.

"She should've been here at least an hour ago. Even if she shows up now, she won't have time to get her hair and make-up done." Jeff doesn't retort. "I have the replacement ready. You know we need to make the call."

"We're not doing that. Nope." I shake my head, holding back every ounce of power I have not to snap at anyone harshly. "She wouldn't do that. I know her."

He eyes me carefully, letting out a deep sigh. "Tell you what — if she doesn't show up in..." He checks the watch around his wrist. "7 minutes, I'm calling in somebody else. No questions allowed." He cusses something out, slamming my dressing room door when exiting.

There's so much anxiety spreading through my body right now, as I check my pink flip phone for any texts, the empty screen staring back at me. I even check the other phone, but it hasn't received any new notifications either.

For the literally hundredth time today, my thumb presses down on the button to call her, only to have the flip phone transfer me to her voice mail.

"Heyy... How's it going? Please leave a message, boyfriend." Amber's automated reply greets me once again, her voice pitched higher on the last word.

Beep.

"Uhm, hey." I scratch the back of my head, my fingers tracing over the dark blue velvet of my suit. "Please, please, please tell me everything's all right with you. God, I hope you haven't gotten in an accident or anything worse."

With that thought, I start pacing the room, already pulling up Google on my regular phone to check the news, and see if there haven't happened any tragedies in the past hour.

My trembling finger scrolls through multiple pages, but none of them make me panic just yet. "Listen..." I check the time, my heartbeat increasing with each second passing. "I think we're going to have to call in someone to replace you today. Trust me, I was really against it, but now I don't really have a choice."

"I w-would send someone to your house or studio to check if you're okay, but there's just so much chaos around." I continue my fast pace, hitting one corner of the room, then switching directions and pacing the other way. "Jesus, Amber. I'm so fucking nervous, I don't think I can do this."

"I seriously feel like I might throw up right now." I close my eyes for a few seconds, taking in a deep yet shuddery breath, and creating this slightly meditative space for myself. "Just..." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Call me whenever you can, yeah? Let me know you're all right."

"I'll see you soon." I exhale, before ending my voicemail with a huge sigh.

She wouldn't just ditch me like that. I know it — something must be wrong, then.

A persevere knock interrupts my worried thoughts, and, for a moment, a glimmer of hope arises in me that it's Amber who made the noise, but it all fades immediately because I know she always knocks in a tu-tutu-ru-tu pattern.

To validate my dreaded thought, Jeff appears in my doorframe once again, a deeper frown on his face this time. He raises his phone in the air, already opening his mouth to speak, but I interrupt him before a sound could even escape his lips.

"Yeah, yeah. Do whatever you need." I slump down on my couch in defeat, Jeff's expression a bit softening as he hums approvingly and closes the door behind him gently, leaving me alone in this confined room to make the calls.

"20 minutes." The voice is monotone in my earpiece, sounding almost robotic.

With all this time left, I plop my head down on the pillows, knowing my hairdresser will be mad at me for doing so, but I don't care to be careful anymore.

For some reason, my hand finds the pink flip phone again, in hopes to relieve some anxiety. This time I don't check for missed calls, knowing it's as empty as it was a few minutes ago. Instead, I search for my voice mailbox, spotting two previously saved voice messages.

My thumb presses to open one of them, as I put the speaker next to my ear, letting her voice of honey soothe me. "Heyyyyyy... boyfriend." Even in this tough situation, her voice makes a faint smile appear on my face. "I just wanted to know if you even listen to voicemail."

So I continue to listen through both of the messages she'd left yesterday, letting them distract me from all the nerves. Even when they end, I hit replay over again and again until someone from the crew enters my room, reminding me it's only seven minutes left, and I should attend to the waiting room already.

So here I am, a guitar hung around my shoulders, my feet feeling a bit unsteady on the wooden ground of this backstage, as hundreds of thoughts fly through my mind, making me dizzy again.

"Everyone ready?" The crewmate asks the band standing beside me, getting a reluctant nod of my head and a 'yes' from everyone else in response.

I lean my head back at the wooden wall, counting the seconds until we're climbing up onto the rooftop to perform "Two Ghosts". My finger anxiously drums against the instrument around my neck, as I eye the person replacing Amber.

I make sure to greet and make him as comfortable as possible to play the keyboard under such short notice, but I still can't stop myself from wondering where the hell Amber went.

I feel Mitch's presence beside me, and I watch as he cocks his head to his side. "Well, Styles? Where's your pre-show joke?" He grins in amusement, but it just sets a deeper pit in my stomach.

I swallow thickly, cursing at myself for the mere fact I'd forgotten. "Yeah, no joke this time."

He widens his eyes at my response, realizing this is the first performance ever, where I haven't cracked a killer joke before.

The earpiece suddenly starts a 59-second countdown, metronome clicks ticking quietly in the background. I quickly wipe my palms against my navy suit, already making my first steps on the stairs.

I get one last good glance at my half-complete band, before leading the way onto the rooftop, a lonely pit in my chest creating with each stride.

Showtime, baby.

~~~

Never did I ever think I'd go searching for pileups in every corner I could think of.

But here I am, looking through every inch of the roads leading from James Corden to Amber's apartment, trying to find some traces of accidents that include a bicycle and another vehicle.

After our performance, my team had wanted me to stay a bit longer in the building, but somehow, with the help of Sarah, I managed to talk them into letting me go and figure out where she could've gone.

So far, nothing.

"Yeah, maybe you could just take a turn there. She might've tried to drive through the alley." My fingers tremble, as I instruct the Uber driver to turn down different small roads.

My theory is, that she started cycling to the CBS studio, turned on a different road, and got in an accident. Her phones would've crashed in the process, so that would explain why she couldn't make a call or arrive in time; I mean, that's the only logical explanation.

"I don't know 'bout you, but I don't see no traces of a car crash or anything like that." The driver expresses, his fair locks shimmering under the sunlight. I have a slight feeling I've seen him somewhere before, but, then again, I feel like that with everyone.

"Uhm..." I nervously pull against my roots, feeling the tension build up since we've spent an hour already, looking literally everywhere. "Alright. So maybe turn right? We'll arrive at her apartment, I'll check if she's there, and then we'll go from there, yeah?"

The guy nods off, arriving at her place within minutes. I pull a wad of cash out of my pocket, pushing triple as much amount of necessary cash in his hand. I stop him before his surprised features would turn to deny, "Thank you for being so patient with me. What's your name?"

"Nate." He chews on his gum, throwing me a cocky grin, and one of the corners of his mouth tugs up.

I narrow my eyes, but the name doesn't ring any bells. "Well, thank you, Nate. If I don't come downstairs in 3 minutes, you can drive off, okay?"

"Understood." He nods off, fixing his black sunglasses.

With the slam of the Uber's door, I'm rushing up to her apartment, this time skipping the elevator to arrive at her door much faster. For a moment, I wonder if I should stop by Ms. Middleton's, but when thinking about how she would probably invite me inside for some tea, I rush past her door, soon arriving at apartment 13.

I bang at her door once. Then twice.

I place my ear onto the wooden door, still hearing nothing. I'm about to knock on it for the third time, but then think to check the handle.

Turns out, her door's open.

I invite myself in, taking timid steps inside the flat. Seeing the empty rooms, at first, I think about turning around and rushing downstairs to tell the Uber driver to take me to another road to let me go investigate once again. But walking deeper into the home, I notice her usual sneakers sat on the doormat. Setting foot in her living room, my ear catches the faint running of water.

I confusedly walk to the place the quiet sound's coming from, my ear pressed against her bathroom door. It takes a lot of focus to determine if I'm not imagining things, but after a long examination, I conclude that there is, in fact, her shower running.

Is she seriously showering right now?

I take a few steps backward from the door, soon plopping down on her small sofa. I try to connect all the dots, wondering why would she have been home this whole time.

I don't know if I should feel relieved or not at the fact she's here.

After a minute of jumbled thinking, I decide it's best to push my anger and hurt aside until she comes out of the bathroom, and I get the chance to hear her explanation. So I decide to wait patiently, somehow relaxed on her couch and trying to figure out if its fabric is more blue or purple.

With rage finally settled down a bit, I get the chance to take a thorough glance at her apartment, scanning over the huge clock reflecting '1:41 am'. Overall, the room hasn't changed much from how I'd left it yesterday, but my eyes catch both of her phones placed neatly on the coffee table. At that, I feel a pang in my heart, thinking of the fact she just plainly ignored all my calls when I'd phoned multiple times.

My head laid on the fluffy couch's armrest, I realize that I haven't had the time to reflect on how the performance actually went. Running my mind over it a few times, I conclude that I'm quite proud of myself. As nervous as I was, even contemplating calling off the show, I pushed through, not to mention singing 'Two Ghosts' surprisingly well.

With a sigh, I roll over, catching a glance at the clock once again — it's '2:03 am'. I feel my eyebrows furrow, once the math settles within me, comprehending it's already been over 20 minutes of me waiting for her to come out.

Rubbing my eyes, and rolling back onto my side, I suddenly freeze. I stop all my movements when I notice 3 empty bottles of 'Alfred's whiskey' tucked in a corner across the room.

My mind quickly tries to reminisce if the bottles have been there the whole time I've been here, and I just hadn't noticed them a few days ago. When my eyes trace to a small bottle cap on the coffee table right next to the tables with a small golden liquid spill on it, I realize it's still somewhat fresh.

3 huge bottles of whiskey. Could she have drunk them all?

I immediately jump on my feet, rushing to the bathroom to check on her. I knock once, calling out her name, but failing to get a response. With mere panic speedily filling me, I'm about to rush into her bathroom, but then some type of lacking consent barrier overtakes me.

I bang heavier onto the door, asking louder if I can come in — still no answer.

I slowly count to 10, giving her time to prepare, in case she did actually hear me. My hand pushes down the handle to open up the door a crack. Before actually entering, I shoot my other hand up to my eyes, still trying to be as respectful as possible.

Taking the first apprehensive steps into the tiled room, an immediate wave of actual heat overtakes me, making my hand fly off from my eyes to take in what's actually happening.

Except... even more confusion fills me, because I can't see anything anymore.

There's so much steam in the room, that it takes time to break through the white, hot clouds. The first thing that my sight falls onto, is her whole soap collection fallen off the shelf. Turning my head to the other side, my heart stammers in my chest at the medicine cabinet being open, some boxes and tubes from there fallen down on the floor.

Frantically looking around the room, my eyes finally find the one I've been looking for this whole time in this chaos. But... when I take a moment to look at her, even more confusion and puzzlement fill me.

She's fully clothed.

Sitting in the shower with her head buried in her hands between both knees.

In this moment of mayhem, my mind detaches from my body for a few seconds, putting me in an absolute freeze. Somehow, I seem to snap back a few moments later, when realizing that the crazy hot steam's coming from the shower.

Has she been sitting under boiling water this whole time?

I rush to her aid, turning off the overheated water pouring down on her shaking body, but she doesn't even seem to notice the change, probably because she's become numb from pain.

Standing in front of her sat body, I'm at a complete loss of words at this sight, even forgetting how to move a muscle.

Her skin's extremely red from the long time spent here, her hair clinging onto her neck, and looking suffocating in a sense, as her clothes appear unbearably heavy on her small frame.

After a few seconds, I start hearing another noise. It's small, yet heartbreaking enough — it takes a moment to realize she's humming the melody of 'Two Ghosts'. She quietly mutters the lyrics under her breath, starting over when she messes up in some places.

It seems to me that she hasn't even noticed my presence here yet.

Her nails dig so roughly in her upper arms, that I'm afraid she'll rip her skin at the action.

I finally snap out of my frozen state, instantly dropping onto my knees to level myself with her hunched body. My pants get soaked with the scorching water, making me unexpectedly gasp at the sudden ache.

"Amber," I whisper, but her head still stays buried between her arms. "Amber, hey." I raise my volume a bit, but it still doesn't make her budge.

"Am." I try softer this time, my fingertip gently tracing over her back.

She flinches.

At that, she shoots her head up, her frantic breaths increasing with each second. My heart drops for the 10th time today at the way her face is in pure panic.

She seems so alerted to the fact I've touched her, that seems like she's about to have a huge attack. It's like she's expecting me to blow up in anger.

The boiling water slowly drains away from the shower, but the steam still keeps rising up the air, making her breaths even thicker, and harder to breathe.

Her eyes keep swimming around the room, yet she doesn't look at me at all. Her droopy sight continues to roam over the pieces of furniture, turning her head in every direction like she's trying to figure out her location and the reason being here.

With more panic rising within her, my thumb and pointer finger snap to the sides of her face, making her cheeks squish a little bit.

I gently turn her head to look up at me, her eyelashes almost falling shut. She finally acknowledges me, looking up with totally bloodshot eyes.

I almost gasp at the way no hazel color can be seen in her irises — just pitch black matching well with the dark lines running down her cheeks from mascara.

"Did you take anything, Amber?" I hold her head firmly, making sure it doesn't cause her any more pain but keeps her attention on me.

"Pills? Something heavier? Just tell me, baby." My voice breaks, as the questions slip past my lips. I feel my hands shake immensely, as I'm quietly praying she hasn't taken anything of the heavy substance. "Should I call the paramedics?"

She shakes her head.

For some reason, I don't believe her.

"Just tell me the truth, yeah?" I move my thumb to brush light stokes on her inflamed skin. "I won't be mad. Just wanna know."

She shakes her head again, it falling back at the end like it's too heavy for her. "N-No. I didn't. I promise." I've never heard her voice sound so weak, but it seems like she's slowly coming down from the panic she had a mere minute ago. "Just liquor."

For the first time today, I let out a sigh of relief. Something about the thought of her taking drugs — especially when my father had been so hooked on them — puts me at such unease, I might've actually puked.

"Good." I breathe out. "That's so good." My hand reaches for the cross necklace hanging between my shirt, and I press a grateful kiss on the pendant once it meets my lips. "Thank you."

Amber looks up at me once again, and I see tears welling up in her eyes. It only takes a split second for the first tear to fall, making me feel like somebody's shoved their hand into my chest, found my heart, squeezed, and twisted it upside down all at once.

"Harry." Her chin starts wobbling as she quietly breathes out my name. "I'm sorry." She whispers, holding me firmly with her eyes.

Before I can respond, she says it again. "I'm sorry." And again. "I'm sorry." Her voice gets more frantic and panicked each time she repeats "I'm sorry." Until she breaks out in a full sob on the last "I'm sorry."