Harry Styles Imagines

•He catches you trying to run away•

Another imagine from the beautiful lovely sweetheart amazing Izzy!! 3Reasons why I post her imagine is known at the end.
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It's just so hard. It's hard to live in a house with high expectations. I feel like I'm suffocating–suffocating in the pressure and the anxiety. I'll never accomplish what my brother has. I'll never come close to the way my family looks at him, as if he is the most respected child they've raised. He's every parent's dream.

Is this why they don't pay attention to me enough? Of course they care for me, they always have, but I can see it. I can see the lack of interest the more I speak about my day, or the more I show them what I can do. I can see the joy they have when they see my brother or hear my brother talk about the music he's created.

"Mum?" I ask, creeping down the hallway to my mother, who's taking a sip of her non-sweetened coffee as she skins through the newspaper.

"Look at this, love." My mum says, patting the skin of her lap.

I walk over to her, sitting gently on one of her legs as she wraps her arm around my waist, supporting me so that I don't lose my balance.

"Your brother is in the newspaper. Says that it's statistically proven that if him and the guys keep the rate of their popularity by the end of 2017, they will have more fans than every 90's boy band combined. Isn't that somethin?"
I frown, but quickly wipe it off my face as my mum takes a look at me.

"That's cool. But I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Anything."

I sigh, "I wanted you to take a look at my drawings. I've been taking it quite seriously recently, and, I just want some advice."

My mum lets out a sigh, placing down her newspaper before moving her glasses to the top of her head.

"Honey, being an artist doesn't get you anywhere. You need to do something bigger, something that gets you somewhere. What would make you different from Michaelangelo, or Van Gough? There's been plenty of those."

"But—"

"Be more like Harold. He's unique and different. He's his own name, why can"t you just do that? Don't be—you. Have some spark darling" She sighs.

My heart drops. Don't be me?

I nod, looking down at my legs, not wanting to look at my mum. She doesn't deserve my attention now.
"Look darling, I have to go. I'll be back in a few hours. Okay? Harry should be coming soon."

Tears spill from my eyes as I slide off of her. I don't look back at her once I stump my way up the stairs. Once in my bedroom, I slam the door behind me, the impact shaking the walls of my bedroom. My head's throbbing against my brain. My cries are scraping against my chest, my throat closing in on itself. I'm coughing, my lungs not getting the amount of air they need. My hands are tugging at the roots of my hair.

I can't do this. I can't do this anymore.
How am I supposed to live in a place where nobody has faith in me? How could I live somewhere where I have to put pressure onto myself day by day just so that I can be half of what I need to be?

I grab the vase that sits perfectly on my desk into my sweaty hands, throwing the plastic petals upon my wooden floor, before slamming the glass on my chair.

"OH FUCK!" I scream out in pain, blood dripping from my hand onto my clothes. I expect it to hurt, to make me feel something else other than my raw throat, the throbbing in my head, the aching in my chest. But it doesn't. Nothing is more painful than this.
I roar at my pain, grabbing the chair that sits in front of me and throw it at the wall. For some reason, I notice that the more I destruct the more relief I feel, as if my body satisfies when something else besides me breaks into pieces.