Everyone has an opinion. Fucking democracy.

Wasted. The sun is burning my face and I don't dare open my eyes. My fingers skim the water, and the coolness brings a fleeting sense of relief. The sensation turns ticklish as I float on my board, facing the merciless yellow ball above.

"Harry," I hear Mitch calling from afar.

"You're going to burn, you fool. Get back here! At least put some cream on," he yells, but I don't even flinch.

Never before has my name bothered me so much.
Harry. Harry. Harry...

Funny how the same sound can carry such different weight depending on the mouth it comes from.

"Harry, Harry!" — that's an anthem, screamed by tens of thousands in a stadium.
"Harryyyyyyy..." — whiny, but sweet when it's my mum scolding me for not calling enough.
"Har-ry, Haaaary..." — sounds fucking euphoric when I'm in someone's bed.

Now, though? Now it's laced with pressure. Expectation. Demand. And I hate the sound of it.

Inspiration — the ever-elusive bastard. Every artist dreams of a switch you can flick on. But it doesn't work like that. It's not a pizza you order and complain about when the toppings are wrong. It comes when it wants to, uninvited and unapologetic. Right now? Nothing. I'm empty. Bone-dry. I want this so badly I can't breathe — and if you can't breathe, you die. That's what this feels like.

Suffocation.

"Harryyyyyy..." There it is again. Jeff, probably. Same name, same noise. Different person, same pressure.

Fuck it. For a day, I'd love to be a Jason. A Nick. Someone forgettable.

I've been here ten days now. Everything customized to my taste — a fully-equipped mansion, a top-tier creative team, even my preferred brand of bottled water. A paradise, tailor-made for inspiration. Katy Perry said she wrote her best songs here.

But not me.

I'm sprawled out, letting the sun roast me, too apathetic to care. Eventually, I roll off the board and splash into the water — still in my underwear, sunglasses on. Didn't even bother changing. Who the fuck cares? Thank God for the anonymity this place provides.

Jeff keeps warning me: if I keep up the bullshit, that privacy is going to vanish too.

Harry Styles living it up in Jamaica — drunk, lazy, and doing absolutely fucking nothing.

Honestly? Wouldn't even be a lie. Ten days in, and I've written zero lyrics, zero chords, zero anything. I've got nothing to show but a pile of crumpled paper that could fill a recycling bin. Every morning, my team gathers to work, and every morning I either ghost or show up and sabotage the session with my attitude. I feel like a fucking failure.

You'd think that being in a band adored by millions would cancel out any self-esteem issues. But now? I've got more to prove than ever. I was always "the cute one with the long hair." That was fine for a while. But that's not who I want to be anymore.

The hair's gone, too. So there's that.

The real panic starts the moment I feel a melody trying to form — that sick, choking question always slithering in:
Is it good enough?

Jeff's at his wits' end. He even brought in Gemma for backup.

"You have no muse. That's the problem. Write about what you feel," she said, like it's just that easy.

I almost threw up. Everyone's got a fucking opinion.
Fucking democracy.

And me? I'm the idiot who gave my best songs away — most under a pen name. Thought I was being noble. Generous. Thought I was helping. Now I'm here, drowning, and all that "nobility" can go fuck itself.

I swim to the surface and cling to the board. The salty water drips down my face. Lost my sunglasses somewhere. Oh well.

Wasted or hungover — that's me, most days. As if drowning in booze could solve anything. I guess it does... for a while. Long enough to forget your own name. Long enough to be a Jason or Nick.

One morning I woke up sprawled across a sunbed, wearing a yellow sundress that wasn't mine. Mouth tasting like death. Mitch said I swapped my shirt with someone's girlfriend. Don't think she's his girlfriend anymore.

And now Gemma's here. They brought in the big guns. I know exactly what she expects — for me to pull myself together, to make magic happen like I used to.

If only it were that easy.

"Harry..."

There it is again. That cursed name.

+++

Ryan's voice breaks through the fog in my brain.

"If you don't push yourself — if you drop all expectations — then you're free, Harry. Free to actually start what we came here to do," he says. His tone is calm, laced with something that sounds like belief. "Don't get frustrated. There's always a pile of shit before anything good happens."

It's classic reverse psychology bullshit, but part of me clings to it anyway.

"I'll tell you what," he continues. "Tonight, we'll go out — and you'll listen. Really listen. To the sea, the wind, the voices. Smell the air. Let it hit you. Let it in. Don't overthink it. Just absorb."

I raise an eyebrow, sceptical. He ignores me.

"Tomorrow, we sit down and write. One song. Doesn't matter if it's a masterpiece or complete trash. We don't leave the house until we make something. Our first baby. Deal?"

I stare at him for a moment. His words shouldn't work. But they do.
For the first time in days — weeks, maybe — I feel something flicker in me. Not inspiration, not yet... but possibility.

Maybe it's the sea.
Maybe it's Ryan's persistence.
Maybe it's the fact that I'm finally ready to admit I need something — someone — to shake me awake.

Whatever it is, I grab onto it.

"Let's do this, people!" I shout, already halfway to the door.

"Let's fucking do this!" I repeat, louder this time.
Hoping that if I say it enough, I'll believe it.

___________________________________

I made a promise to myself: to finish everything that's been sitting in the drawers for far too long—and I intend to keep that promise. My head is full of ideas that are begging to be written.

It's true, my hiatus cost me many readers, but I'm determined to complete this story—even if I end up being the only one who reads it.

This story once had a different title, but I changed it to something more fitting. The first chapters have already been edited and reshaped.

So here I am, starting again. Join me on this journey—and if you're reading, let me know what you think.