Looking at the vast selection of shoes, boots, and trainers in his walk-in closet makes Harry cringe. He sits in the centre of the polished wooden floor like a misplaced object in a museum—small and still, surrounded by a curated exhibit of his past life.

His eyes trace each shelf slowly. Row after row, lined up with ridiculous precision, like someone with OCD had arranged them just to impress a camera lens. But there are no cameras anymore.

Each pair has a story.

The worn-out suede Chelsea boots—those were his go-to with the black skinny jeans.
The glossy black leather ones with the fancy buckle—Italy, a rooftop concert, flashing lights.
The barely-used yellow Vans—he wore them once in New York. Just once.
His torn red Converse—he'd had those since he was sixteen.
The pristine Gucci loafers still in their box—gifted by Alessandro, never worn.

Too many shoes. Too many memories. Too many versions of himself.

He clenches his jaw, the silence pressing in. Then—
"Mom!"
He yells it without warning, his voice slicing the air.

"Moooooom!"

"MOOOOOOOOOOOM!"

Anne rushes through the hall and into the room, panic on her face.
"What's wrong?" she gasps, breathless, eyes scanning him. "Are you okay?"

"I want all of these gone."
His voice is cold. Detached. The kind of calm that makes you uneasy.

Anne blinks. "I'm sure you could get some money for charity—"

"They need to go."

He wheels out of the closet before she can finish, his fingers curling tightly around the push rings. He heads for his room and jams in his earbuds without looking back.

Anne exhales, still standing in the doorway. She knows better than to argue when he's like this.

"We're leaving soon. Got everything you need?" she asks a few minutes later, following him down the hall. She gently pulls one earbud from his ear.

He doesn't answer. Just nods.

The car ride is silent. Harry rolls the window down and leans into the breeze, eyes closed. The wind feels clean—like something that hasn't been tainted by pity or memory. For once, it doesn't ask him to be okay.

The physio centre's waiting room feels messier than usual. The bulletin board is overflowing with thank-you notes, pictures, and colourful cards.

Some are scribbled in crayon, some typed neatly, some filled with hearts, stick figures, or shaky handwriting.

Christina, thank you for helping me walk again.
You believed in me when I didn't.
You're an angel. Truly.
You made me feel human again.
I'm only 14 but damn girl—you fine. Marry me? —J
Thank you for seeing me first as a person, not just a patient.

Harry stares at the wall, expression unreadable. Something tugs at him.

They remind him of the signs he used to see at concerts.

Harry, you saved my life.
Treat people with kindness.
I love you more than free Wi-Fi.
You rock. Forever.

So many lives touched... just because he existed.

For a split second, his lips twitch. Almost a smile.

He remembered a girl once told him she came out to her parents because of a lyric he wrote.
She'd cried. He had hugged her.

He helped people, once. Like Christina does now.

"See you next week, Chris!" a voice chirps.

His thoughts scatter. He turns toward the sound.

It's not for him. Christina is grinning—but not at him. Her smile is warm, glowing, and it's directed at someone else. A girl around his age, wheeling herself out of the room with a slight bounce in her posture. Confident. Cute.

She's in a wheelchair too.

So Christina is like this with everyone.
Not just him.
Not special.
Just part of her job.

His chest tightens for a reason he doesn't name.

"Dude," the girl gasps, wide-eyed. "You're Harry Styles!"

He says nothing.

"I love your music," she adds, still beaming. She's starstruck, but not awkward about it.
He doesn't respond. Just stares—from her face, to her wheelchair, then to Christina, and back.

"So, it's true?" she says more softly.
"I hoped it was bullshit. Like all the other crap in those trash magazines."

Christina steps forward gently, reading his body language like a pro.

"Harry, this is Cindy. Cindy, obviously—you know who this is."
She glances between them with an encouraging smile.
"Why don't you tell him about the technique we've been working on? We've used it with Harry, too."

Cindy perks up.

"You're in great hands, Harry. Christina's the absolute best. She doesn't let you give up."
She lingers for a second longer, then smiles.
"Anyway. Great to meet you. Hope I see you around?"

"Great to meet you too," he says out of reflex more than anything. His voice is even. Not cold, but not warm either.

"Later, Chris!" Cindy waves and disappears down the hall, the rhythmic hum of her wheels fading behind her.

Harry was already positioned on the massage table when Christina walked back into the room. His shoulders were stiff, his arms folded awkwardly under his chest.

He didn't greet her.

She sensed it immediately—he was off today. Tighter. Quiet. Closed.

"So, what's today's joke?" she asked, trying to draw him out gently. "Don't hold back. I can handle anything after the one you told me the other day."

He didn't answer.

"I told a few friends," she continued playfully, her hands already working close to his spine. "Big hit, by the way."

Still, nothing.

"No jokes today," he muttered finally. "Can't think of one."

She paused, just briefly. "Oookay," she said slowly, dragging out the word, acknowledging the tension without challenging it. Her hands moved to his lower back.

The area was tense—more than usual. Every muscle felt like it had curled inward. As she worked, she could feel him wince slightly, even though he said nothing.

"So... Cindy's a fan," she tried.

Silence.

She gave it a few seconds, then tried again, her voice light. "Do you talk to all your fans? Get annoyed with any of them? Are there special ones? Difficult ones?"

His response came out flat. Robotic.

"No, I can't talk to all of them. Yes, some annoy me. Yes, there are a few special ones. Yes, some are difficult."

Each answer was clipped. Emotionless.

She'd clearly pushed something.

"I—uh—I see," she said softly, her hands still moving, now more carefully. "Sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

Then his voice cut through the quiet again.

"Isn't it the same for you?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, brows knitting.

"You can't take everyone who calls. You get annoyed at some of us. Some, if not all, are difficult." He paused. "The only difference is, there aren't any special ones for you, are there?"

Her hands froze mid-stroke.

The air thickened.

"Where's that coming from?" she asked gently, standing still beside him. She didn't sound angry. Just... surprised.

"I don't understand, Harry. You know I can't take every patient—there aren't enough hours in the day. And yes, some are difficult. But that doesn't mean they're not special. Everyone has a story. Everyone is important. Fame doesn't change that."

She let her hands rest on his lower back for a bit.

"But yes," she added, quieter now, "there are some patients you don't forget. Even if you tried."

She resumed the massage, her pressure steady but softer now. She didn't look at him, but Harry could tell—she was affected. Her voice had changed. It wasn't just her professionalism cracking—it was something more personal.

And that made him feel... awful.

Why did I say that?
She was only trying to help. Why push her away?

After a few quiet moments, her fingers still kneading gently across his sore muscles, Harry finally spoke again.

His voice was clearer this time.

"A poor man asks a rich man, 'What are you getting your wife this Christmas?'
The rich man says, 'Diamond earrings and a Mercedes.'
The poor man asks, 'Why two gifts?'
The rich guy goes, 'Well, if she doesn't like the earrings, she can drive to the store and exchange them.'"

He paused.

"Then the rich man asks the poor guy, 'So what are you getting your wife?'
The poor man thinks for a second and says,
'A pair of slippers... and a dildo.'"

Christina raised her head slightly, eyebrows lifted.

Harry went on, deadpan:
"'Why those two?' the rich man asks.
And the poor guy says, 'So if she doesn't like the slippers... she can go f*** herself.'"

For a second, nothing.

Then Christina let out a loud, unfiltered laugh that filled the entire room. She dropped to her knees, holding her stomach, gasping.

"Oh my God, Harry!" she wheezed. "That was disgusting!"

"But funny," he said with a grin, still lying face down, listening to her completely lose it.

"And so funny!" she nodded, wiping tears from her eyes, laughing harder with every passing second.

Harry turned his head slightly, just enough to glimpse her flushed face.

"Am I a special one now, Coach?"

She met his eyes. Still smiling. Still catching her breath.

"You certainly are, Harry," she said softly.
"You certainly are."