#also it’s a diff pov so dont mind if its grammatically bad

[writingsfromhome]

What are you Listening To?

Ask: Would you write something based off of Chris Stapleton’s song “what are you listening to?”.

A/N: this was painful to write, it is short and Sad. So read at your own risk

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Ever since Harry and you broke up, he’s hated train rides. It was over an hour riding from central to the flat you two were renting in Northolt.

Harry remembers the day you two moved in; both of you were only 21, you’d given up being able to afford something decent any closer to London. He remembers even though you had been upset at first, it had taken one night there for you to reframe everything. He remembers you made a pact together: every train ride would be enjoyable.

That was y/n to him, always trying to add gratitude to any small moment.

And train rides had been more okay because of you. Harry would get playlists curated for him every week that were exactly 1 hour and 20 mins for his rides in, other times when you was working at the office the two of you would ride in together. If a stranger looked over at you they would see two people sharing a pair of headphone listening to music or a podcast about music together, or leaning into each other catching up on sleep after a late night together, or simply whispering to each other and laughing. You two never ran out of things to laugh about.

Now, 6 years later, Harry rode on the train for the hour and a bit all alone and he hated every minute because all he thought about was you. All he could remember was you. And it was a torturous ride that ended in an empty flat.

Tonight Harry cracks open a beer as soon as he gets in, unbuttons his stuffy dress shirt and flops down onto his couch. You two had bought the couch together a few years ago after finally throwing out the ratty one you had grown attached to. This new couch had been a symbol of doing better, both of your careers were going well and you finally had money for nicer things.

Although neither of you were ever able to shake off this flat. The long train rides in became a sacred ritual, the flat became home. All your friends used to make fun but it never bothered either of you because it was enough. It used to be enough.

Lately Harry’s felt depraved—ever since you left, he continued to torture himself with music.

Music used to mean everything to him, until he met you, then you replaced that. But music became a thing for both of you. The two of you used music as a way to enhance life—you both believed life imitated art and vice versa. You both agreed that music was the best art form to view the world through. It was always playing through the flat.

When you two weren’t on the train or in your Northolt flat, you were at music shows all over town. From the O2 to a small local pub, you loved supporting musicians and unlocking the secret stories and emotions that came with them. After every show Harry loved staying up with you and going over the highlights of the show; that’s where a lot of your train naps came in handy.

In another life, Harry used to tell you, he would be a musician. Both of you would travel the world and he’d play his sold out shows and you would get to travel. You never could travel as much as you wanted to.

I guess in another life, Harry thought with a pang, we’d still be together.

Tonight, Harry goes old school and puts a record on. When you two first split, Harry had hated looking at the shelf that used to be brimming with records. Because now its half-empty shelves were a reminder there was an empty space in this place he called home.

The vinyl spins round, and its familiar chords begin to play into the drafty flat. Harry sinks into the couch. Into his misery.

You were in every line that played; he almost sees you standing over the couch smiling down at him, encouraging him to get up and dance with you.

He would sweep you across the floor, you would giggle about what the neighbours downstairs heard. You would sing, he remembers. And he would join in, holding you close. Cheek to cheek. The two of you had become a single living organism. Now he was a soldier returning home with a phantom limb. It was the only explanation why he not only ached inside, but all around him too.

He reaches his hand out into the air, the dust motes twirl around his fingers, the only company he has these days.

Harry wonders if you were home right now, or on a train. Maybe you were still at the office working late, or meeting up with a friend for dinner. He wondered what you were listening to. Maybe one of those niche cover bands both of you’d heard in the small towns you’d visited across the country, or a sad song on the radio, maybe it was a busker on the train platform, or maybe it was something new. A song that had no history with Harry. Maybe, Harry thought, you were better adjusted. Not as depraved like him. Maybe it was a love song about someone new, someone who made you feel good again.

Harry felt mad thinking about where the two of you went wrong.

Right after the two of your broke up and he had to tell the people in his life, they’d all been shocked. Blindsided just like him. It was always Harry and y/n, y/n and Harry. They’d been one. Now it felt like someone was missing in any crowd Harry found himself in.

You’d always been in harmony, but sometime in the last few months of being together, Harry had unknowingly missed some notes. Your music had clashed, and no sheet music could set it right.

At least that’s what he had heard from you: there was no going back.

Harry curls in on himself. The ache fills him from the centre out.

He wondered if you thought about him as often as he thought about you. If you wondered like him, how a good thing goes bad. How can such an overabundance of love just vanish?

His mates kept telling him to move out. He could afford something closer to the city now, he had people nearby there. He didn’t have to be alone.

But Harry felt like he was still living in the final note of a song, it’s echo still reverberating throughout the room. Some might call it the ghost of the song. Harry called it hope. He had this crazy dream: maybe one day you would show up at the front door you both called home at one point. And you’d step into his arms. He’d realize the last few months had just been the diminuendo. Your songs were still playing. There were still new heights to scale.

The record comes to an end. Harry’s in the exact same position he’s been in the last couple months. Curled on his side in the sofa, bottles littering the coffee table, pillow soaked with tears, and pain lacing every bone and ligament without you here.

He’d give anything to know what you were listening to. One more song together. One last dance together. Even one last note together.

What are you listening to?

#harry styles fic #harry styles x reader #harry styles #harry styles fanfic #writingsfromhome #harry styles imagine #fic #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles request #lyrics #chris stapleton #what are you listening to #also it’s a diff pov so dont mind if its grammatically bad #anon’s req just inspired me to write it #harry styles one shot