The Door He Won't Open

Chapter 1: The Door He Won't Open

My hand hovered in the air for an eternity before I finally let my knuckles meet the wood. Three soft knocks, barely audible over the bass thumping through the walls, but I knew he'd hear them. He always heard me. That was the thing about Harry Styles, the thing that made this so fucking impossible. He heard me when no one else did.

The door swung open and every prepared speech I'd rehearsed in the stairwell dissolved like sugar in rain.

He was shirtless. Chest bare, skin flushed a deep pink that crawled up his neck and painted his cheeks. His chest heaved like he'd just sprinted a mile, and his curls were a disaster, damp at the temples and sticking to his forehead. His green eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, and something wet glistened at the corner of his mouth.

"Ni-Nikki." He breathed my name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

Behind him, the lamp cast a golden glow over rumpled sheets. A tangle of dark hair fanned across his pillow. The scent hit me then, vanilla and citrus and something muskier underneath, something unmistakably like sex, and my stomach turned over.

"You coming back to bed?" The voice was honey-sweet and dripping with lazy satisfaction. Kendall's voice. Kendall's hair. Kendall's long, model-perfect legs stretching out from under his covers like she owned the place.

The tears I'd been fighting all night finally spilled over, hot and humiliating, carving tracks down my cheeks. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't blink. I just stood there, a statue of shattered glass, while the boy I'd loved since high school stood in front of me, still smelling like another woman's cunt.

"Nikki, wait." He reached for my wrist, his fingers brushing my skin, and I flinched like I'd been electrocuted. His touch burned. It always had, but now it felt like acid.

I yanked my arm back, cradling it against my chest like he'd wounded me. Maybe he had. Maybe he'd just carved a hole straight through my ribcage and left it gaping open.

"You made your choice, Harry."

My voice came out steadier than I felt. That was the thing about pain, I'd learned it young and I'd learned it well. You swallow it down, you press your tongue against the sharp edges until they stop cutting, and you say the words that need saying. Even if each one feels like swallowing glass.

"Nikki, please, just let me explain." He stepped forward, and I stepped back. One step for one step, a dance I'd never wanted to learn. "It's not what you think."

"Really?" I laughed, and the sound came out broken and ugly. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly like what I think. Kendall's in your bed, Harry. Your dick probably still smells like her. And you're standing here telling me it's not what I think?"

His jaw tightened. Something flickered in those green eyes, guilt and desperation tangled together. "She came onto me, I swear. I was drunk, I wasn't thinking straight. Nikki, you're the one I-"

"Don't." The word came out as a sob, and I hated myself for it. "Don't you dare say it. You had months, Harry. Months of me waiting, of me hoping, of me convincing myself that you just needed time. And this is what you do?"

I could see Kendall propping herself up on her elbow behind him, watching us like it was her personal soap opera. A smug little smile played at her lips. She didn't even have the decency to look ashamed.

"I love you." Harry's voice cracked. "I've always loved you. That's the problem, Nikki. I never figured out how to-"

"No." I shook my head, my blue and purple curls whipping around my face. "You don't get to say that. Not tonight. Not when you've got her scent on your skin and her pussy still fresh in your memory. You don't get to pull me in just to throw me away."

The door was still open. I could see past him, could see the condom wrapper crumpled on his nightstand like a goddamn trophy, and something inside me finally snapped. Whatever fragile thread had been holding me together, that tiny thing that had kept me hoping through every mixed signal and every almost-kiss and every late night conversation that felt like everything, it broke.

"Goodbye, Harry."

I turned and walked. Every step felt like wading through cement, but I kept going, my spine straight, my shoulders back, refusing to let him see the cracks spider-webbing through my chest. I'd made it to the end of the hallway when I heard the door click shut behind me.

And then I fell apart.

My back hit the wall and I slid down, my knees buckling beneath me, and I sat there in the dim hallway with neon light pulsing over my skin, tears streaming down my face as I pressed my fist against my mouth to muffle the sounds clawing their way out of my throat.

His muffled voice came through the wood. "Nikki, please. Please just come back."

It was pathetic. He was pathetic. And worst of all, so was I, because a tiny, broken part of me still wanted to crawl back to that door and pound on it until he let me in. Until he wrapped those arms around me and swore it was all a mistake. Until he convinced me I was still his.

But I'd watched him ruin us. I'd stood there with my heart in my hands while he showed me exactly how much I'd always meant to him, and I'd finally understood what everyone else had been trying to tell me for years.

Harry Styles would never love me the way I loved him. I was just a safety net, a warm body to come back to when the other girls got boring. And I was done being anyone's goddamn fallback.

I sat there until my tears ran dry, until the sounds of the party below faded into a dull roar, until Harry's apologies behind the door went silent. And when I finally found the strength to stand, I walked out of that frat house with my head held high and every piece of my heart left bleeding on the floor behind me.

I don't know how long I sat there, a crumpled mess on the floor of a frat house hallway, the smell of stale beer and desperation clinging to every breath I took. Long enough for my legs to go numb. Long enough for the tears to dry into salty tracks on my cheeks. Long enough for the hollow in my chest to calcify into something harder, something I could carry with me out of this place.

I pushed myself up, using the wall for support, my palms scraping against the cheap paint. My legs felt like jelly, my head throbbed in time with the bass still thumping somewhere below, and my eyes were so swollen I could barely see straight. But I was standing. That counted for something.

I made it two steps toward the stairs before I heard footsteps coming up.

"Nikki?"

Niall's voice, soft with that Irish lilt, caught me mid-step. I froze, wiping furiously at my face, but it was useless. He was already at the top of the stairs, his blue eyes going wide as they landed on me. He took in my ruined makeup, my red-rimmed eyes, the way I was swaying on my feet like I might collapse at any second.

"Jesus, Nikki. What happened?" He closed the distance between us, his hand reaching for my arm, steadying me before I could fall. "Are you okay? Did someone hurt you?"

I almost laughed. Did someone hurt me? Yeah, someone had. Someone had ripped my heart out of my chest and left it in a pile of rumpled sheets with Kendall Jenner's smug fucking face on the pillow next to it.

"I'm fine." The words came out cracked and unconvincing. I pulled my arm away, trying to sidestep him. "I'm leaving. Party's over for me."

"Nikki, wait." He stepped into my path, blocking me. His face was earnest, those blue eyes searching mine with a concern I didn't want. "You're not fine. You look like you've been crying for hours. Tell me who did this to you, and I swear I'll-"

"Harry." The name fell out of my mouth before I could stop it, bitter and sharp as broken glass. "Harry did this to me. Because Harry is a fucking coward who can't decide what he wants, so he just takes whatever's easiest. And apparently, that's Kendall Jenner in his bed."

Niall's face fell. His jaw tightened, and I saw something flicker in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or recognition. Like he'd known this was coming and hadn't said anything.

"Nikki, listen to me." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "He's a fucking idiot. We all know that. But he's our idiot. He loves you. He's always loved you, he just.."

"Don't." I shook my head, my curls whipping around my face. "Don't you dare defend him. Not tonight. I don't want to hear about how he's confused or scared or whatever bullshit excuse he's got cooked up. I've been hearing those excuses for years, Niall. Years. And I'm done."

Niall's hands came up, resting on my shoulders, firm and warm. His touch grounded me in a way that surprised me. "I know. I know you are. And honestly? Good for you. But I need you to know, it's not what you think. Harry's been a mess since the moment you two met. He pushes people away because he's terrified, not because he doesn't want them. That's not an excuse, it's just the truth. And I know that doesn't make it hurt any less, but.."

"It doesn't." My voice broke on the words. "It doesn't make it hurt less. It makes it hurt more, Niall. Because it means he could have chosen me. He could have let me in, and he chose not to. He chose her."

"He chose her," I repeated, the words landing like stones in my throat. "After everything, after every conversation, every almost, every time he looked at me like I was the only person in the room. He chose her. And I have to be okay with that, Niall. I have to be, because I don't have a choice."

My voice cracked on the last word, and I felt the tears threatening to spill again. I'd thought I was empty. I'd thought I had nothing left. But there it was, that familiar burn behind my eyes, that ache in my chest that wouldn't quit, no matter how many times I told myself I was done.

Niall didn't say anything. He just looked at me, those blue eyes soft and sad, and then his arms were around me.

It wasn't tentative. It wasn't gentle, not in the careful way people touch something fragile. It was the kind of hug you give someone when words have failed, when you don't know what to say but you know they need to be held. His arms wrapped around my shoulders and pulled me into his chest, and I felt the solid warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart through his shirt.

"Let it out," he murmured against my hair. "Just let it out, Nikki."

And I did.

The sob tore out of me, raw and ugly, and I buried my face in his shoulder. I gripped the back of his shirt like he was the only thing keeping me upright, because he was. I cried into his chest, great heaving sobs that shook my whole body, and he just held me, one hand rubbing slow circles on my back, the other cradling the back of my head.

"Shh, I've got you," he said. "I've got you."

I smelled beer on his shirt, and cologne, and something clean underneath. He smelled like Niall, like safety, like the boy who'd spent years making me laugh at parties and stealing my fries at lunch and never once making me feel like I was too much. He smelled like home, and that made me cry harder.

"It's so stupid," I managed between sobs. "I know it's stupid. He's not worth this. He's never been worth this."

"He's worth something," Niall said quietly. "He's my best friend. But you, Nikki. You're worth more. You always have been."

I clung to him, my fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt, and let myself be held. For a long moment, neither of us moved. The bass still thumped somewhere below, muffled and distant, and I could hear voices drifting up from the party, laughter and shrieks and the clink of bottles. But in this little pocket of the hallway, there was just us. Just me crying into Niall's chest and him holding me together.

Eventually, the sobs quieted to hiccups. I pulled back just enough to look up at him, my face a mess, my eyes swollen, my nose running. I probably looked like a disaster. I felt like one.

"Thank you," I whispered. "I didn't know how much I needed that."

Niall's hand came up, cupping my cheek. His thumb brushed away a stray tear, but it was gentle, not romantic. Just kind. "You don't have to thank me. That's what friends are for."

I managed a watery smile. "Even when the friend is a wreck?"

"Especially then." He grinned, that familiar mischievous grin that had gotten him out of a thousand scrapes. "Wrecks are my specialty."

I laughed, and it came out wet and broken, but it was a laugh. That counted for something.

"Can you get me out of here?" I asked, my voice steadier now. "I don't think I can walk through that party. I don't think I can look at anyone right now."

Niall's expression softened. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. There's a back stairwell by the kitchen. I'll walk you out."

He kept his arm around me as we started walking, and I leaned into him, letting him take my weight. My legs were still shaky, my head still throbbing, but with him beside me, the hallway didn't feel quite so dark.

We passed Harry's door on the way to the stairs. The door was shut, closed and silent, and I made myself look away. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to imagine what was happening on the other side of that wood, whether Kendall was crawling over him again, whether he was thinking about me or already lost in her.

It didn't matter. It couldn't matter anymore.

The back stairwell was narrow and dim, lit by a single flickering bulb. Niall led me down, his hand steady on my elbow, and I kept my eyes on my feet, counting each step to keep from thinking too hard. Twenty-three steps. Then a door. Then cool night air on my face.

The parking lot behind the frat house was half empty, cars scattered under the streetlights. I could hear the party inside, muffled and distant, and I realized I'd left my purse in the common room. I didn't care. I didn't care about anything except getting away.

"Where's your car?" Niall asked.

"Two streets over. I didn't want to deal with the party parking."

"I'll walk you."

"Niall, you don't have to-"

"I know I don't have to. I want to." He gave my shoulder a squeeze. "Come on. It's cold out here."

The walk was quiet. The night air was crisp and smelled like rain and cut grass, and I let it fill my lungs, let it push out some of the stale beer and hurt. Niall walked beside me, his hands in his pockets, and I was grateful he didn't try to fill the silence with words.

When we reached my car, I finally turned to face him. "I don't know how to thank you."

"Don't." He shook his head. "Just promise me you'll be okay. And if you need anything, anything at all, you call me. I don't care what time it is."

"I will."

He pulled me into one more hug, quick and tight, and I hugged him back, burying my face in his chest one last time. When we pulled apart, his eyes were sad but determined.

"He's going to figure it out eventually," Niall said. "I don't know when. I don't know how. But I know he will. And when he does, he's going to have to work damn hard to get you back. And I'm going to make sure he knows it."

"Good." I unlocked my car and slid into the driver's seat. "Because I'm not making it easy for him."

Niall smiled. "I'm counting on it."

I started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, leaving the frat house and the party and Harry behind. In my rearview mirror, I could see Niall still standing there, watching me go, and I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding.

I was done crying. I was done hoping. I was done being the girl who waited by a door that was never going to open for her.

And I was going to be okay. I had to be. Because I was worth more than waiting for a boy who couldn't see what he already had.

The rearview mirror held Niall's silhouette until I turned the corner, and then it was just me and the empty road, the streetlights flickering past like a strobe on my ruined face. My hands were shaking on the wheel, my knuckles white, and I had to pull over twice before I made it to my apartment, each time pressing my forehead against the steering wheel and breathing through the wave of nausea that kept rising in my throat.

The first time, I thought I might vomit. The second time, I just sat there in the dark, staring at nothing, replaying the image of Kendall's legs under Harry's sheets until I wanted to claw my own eyes out.

When I finally pulled into my parking spot, the apartment building was dark except for the flickering light in the third-floor window that I knew was Aria's room. She was probably still at the party, or maybe out with Louis somewhere. I didn't have the energy to check my phone. I didn't have the energy to do anything except drag myself up the stairs and into my own bed.

The apartment was quiet. Hannah's door was shut, Emily's too, and I was grateful for the silence as I padded through the living room, shedding my jacket on the floor and leaving my shoes by the door. I didn't turn on any lights. The moon through the window was enough, casting pale silver over the mess of homework and art supplies that covered the coffee table.

I made it to my room and shut the door behind me, leaning against it for a long moment, my eyes closed, my chest heaving. And then I pushed off the door, stripped out of my clothes without looking at myself in the mirror, and crawled into bed in my underwear and a tank top.

The sheets were cold. Everything was cold.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, my phone face-down on the nightstand where I couldn't see the notifications lighting up. I knew they were there. Harry would have texted a dozen times, probably calling too, leaving voicemails I would never listen to. Aria would be blowing up my phone with question marks and concern. I wasn't ready for any of it.

My brain kept circling back to the same images. Harry's chest heaving. The wet glisten at the corner of his mouth. Kendall's lazy, satisfied voice asking if he was coming back to bed. The condom wrapper on the nightstand, so casual, so damning, like he hadn't even thought to hide it.

I pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars.

I'd known him since high school. I'd watched him grow from a lanky teenager with too-big smiles into the man he was now, all confidence and charm, a boy who'd learned to wear attention like armor. I'd stood beside him through every heartbreak, every fight with the guys, every bad night where he'd shown up at my door looking like the world had beaten him down. I'd held his hand when his grandma died. I'd driven him to the hospital when he broke his ankle senior year. I'd been there, always, for everything.

And he'd never once chosen me back.

I turned onto my side, curling into myself, and let the tears come again. They were quieter this time, more exhausted, like my body had finally decided crying wasn't worth the effort. I drifted somewhere between sleep and waking, my thoughts fragmenting into half-formed dreams that dissolved the moment I tried to hold onto them.

When I woke, the sun was up and my phone was buzzing against the nightstand.

I reached for it without thinking, squinting against the glare. Twelve missed calls. Eighteen texts. Most from Aria, a few from Hannah and Emily, and three from a number I didn't recognize. I opened the texts from Aria first.

"Where are you?

"NIKKI answer your phone"

"Louis told me what happened. Are you okay?

"Please call me. I'm freaking out."

I let the phone drop onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. Louis knew. Which meant the whole frat house knew, which meant everyone knew, which meant the story was probably already circulating through the group chat like wildfire. Good. Let it spread. Let everyone know what Harry Styles had done.

But the ache in my chest told me that's not what I actually felt.

I picked up the phone again and texted Aria back. Just three words. "I'm okay." A lie, but it would hold her off long enough for me to get out of bed and figure out my next move.

I forced myself up, shuffled to the bathroom, and stood under the shower until the water ran cold. I scrubbed my face until it was raw, washed my hair twice, and when I finally stepped out, wrapped in a towel, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

My eyes were still swollen. My skin was blotchy. But there was something in my expression that hadn't been there before, a hardness settling into my features that I recognized from years ago, from the girl I'd been before I let Harry Styles charm his way past every wall I'd built.

I'd lost that girl somewhere along the way. I'd let him soften me, let him make me believe that maybe this time, maybe this one, would be different.

And now I had to find her again.

I dressed in jeans and an old band tee, pulled my wet curls up into a messy bun, and walked into the kitchen to make coffee. The apartment was still quiet, and I was grateful. I didn't want to answer questions I didn't have answers to yet.

The coffee helped. The warmth of it in my hands, the bitter taste grounding me, the familiar ritual of it, all of it helped. I stood at the kitchen counter, staring out the window at the campus buildings in the distance, and tried to figure out what came next.

Skip class. That was the first decision. I couldn't sit in art history and pretend to care about Renaissance compositions when my entire world had just collapsed. I'd call in sick to the coffee shop too. I couldn't stand behind the counter and fake smile at customers while my heart was still bleeding out on the floor of Harry's frat house.

That left me with an empty day and a head full of thoughts I didn't want to think.

My phone buzzed again. I glanced at it, expecting Aria again, but it was an unknown number. I hesitated, then opened it.

"I know you probably don't want to talk to me. But I need you to know I'm sorry. Not for what happened, but for how you found out. I should have told you. I should have told you a lot of things. Can we talk? Please?"

He'd gotten a new number, or borrowed someone's phone. Of course he had. He knew I'd never pick up for his regular one.

I stared at the text for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the reply button. There was a part of me, the stupid, desperate part, that wanted to type yes. That wanted to hear his voice, to let him explain, to give him one more chance to make it right.

But then I remembered Kendall's legs. Kendall's voice. Kendall's smug face watching me fall apart.

I locked my phone and set it face-down on the counter.

Not today. Maybe not ever.

The lie I'd texted Aria felt like ash on my tongue, but I'd said it and now I had to live with it. I was not okay. I was the furthest thing from okay. But okay was a destination, a place I could walk toward even if I couldn't see it yet.

The coffee cooled in my hands while I stared out at the campus, watching students trudge between buildings, their backpacks slung over shoulders, their lives still intact. None of them knew that my entire world had vaporized in the space of a single door opening. None of them knew that I'd just lost a six-year war I hadn't even realized I'd been fighting.

I finished my coffee, washed the mug, and put it back in the cabinet. Then I walked to my room, picked up my phone, and deleted Harry's message without reading it again.

One step at a time.

I spent the morning in a fog. I cleaned the apartment, something I hadn't done in weeks. I wiped down the counters, swept the floors, sorted the pile of laundry that had been accumulating on my desk chair. The physical motion helped. It gave my hands something to do while my brain chewed through the same thoughts over and over.

What had I done wrong? Nothing. That was the kicker. I hadn't done a single thing wrong, and still I'd ended up here, alone and bleeding, while Kendall Jenner got to wake up in Harry's arms.

I was on my knees scrubbing the bathroom tiles when I heard the front door open.

"Nikki?" Emily's voice, soft and cautious, like she was approaching a wounded animal. "You here?"

"Bathroom." I didn't stop scrubbing. The tile was already clean. I just needed something to dig my nails into.

She appeared in the doorway, still in her workout clothes, her hair pulled back in that familiar braid. Her eyes swept over me, taking in the rubber gloves, the scrub brush, the way I was hunched over the floor like my life depended on it.

"Babe." She crouched down beside me, her hand resting on my shoulder. "You don't have to do this. You can just sit with it."

"I don't want to sit with it." I scrubbed harder. "I want to scrub it out of me."

Emily was quiet for a moment. Then she gently took the brush from my hand, set it aside, and pulled me into her arms. I went stiff for a second, then collapsed against her, my forehead pressing into her shoulder, her familiar smell of sweat and sunscreen filling my nose.

"Niall told Zayn," she murmured. "Zayn told me. The whole group knows now."

"Great." My voice was muffled against her shirt. "So everyone gets to watch me fall apart in real time."

"Everyone wants to help you, Nikki. Aria's been losing her mind. Hannah's been pacing. Spencer's already planning a full interrogation of Louis."

I laughed, wet and broken. "Tell Spencer I appreciate her dedication."

"Girl, you know she's got a whole binder of questions ready." Emily pulled back, her hands on my shoulders, those dark brown eyes searching mine. "But first, I need to know. Are you okay? Really?"

"No." The word came out honest and raw. "No, I'm not okay. I don't know when I'm going to be okay again. But I'm not going to let him break me, Em. I've survived worse. I'll survive this."

She studied me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You know Harry called Zayn this morning. Crying. Like, actually sobbing, asking if he thought you'd ever talk to him again."

"Good." The word felt sharp and satisfying on my tongue. "I hope he cries. I hope he cries until he's dehydrated."

"Nikki."

"What?" I pulled away from her, getting to my feet. "Am I supposed to feel bad for him? He made his choice. He picked her. He can live with the consequences."

Emily stood too, her expression careful, that peacekeeper's look she'd perfected over years of mediating between Zayn and the other guys. "I'm not defending him. What he did was shitty. But I do think he genuinely regrets it. Niall said he's been a mess all morning."

"Regret doesn't undo what he did." I stripped off the rubber gloves and threw them in the sink. "It doesn't erase the image of her in his bed. It doesn't take back every night I spent waiting for him to choose me. It doesn't matter how sorry he is. It's done."

Emily opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. She looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay. I'm not going to push it. But I'm here. We're all here. And if you need to fall apart again, I'll catch you."

I felt my lower lip tremble, and I pressed my lips together hard, forcing it back down. "Thanks, Em. I don't know what I'd do without you guys."

"You'd be a hot mess in a trench coat, honestly."

I laughed despite myself, a genuine laugh that surprised me. "That's basically what I am."

She grinned, pulling me into another hug. "Come on. I'm making you food. You need to eat something that isn't tears and regret."

"I'm not hungry."

"Tough shit. You're eating." She steered me out of the bathroom, her arm around my shoulders, and I let her.

The kitchen filled with the sounds of her moving around, opening cabinets, pulling out pans. I sat at the counter, watching her work, and for a few minutes, it was almost normal. Almost like a regular morning between roommates.

Then my phone buzzed on the counter.

I looked at it. Another text. This one from Louis.

"Hey Nikki. Don't know if you're reading these. But I wanted you to know. He's a fucking idiot and we all know it. Not defending him just telling you. You deserve better and honestly I hope you find it. We're all here for you. Even the ones who live with him."

I stared at the message for a long moment, then typed back a single word.

"Thanks."

It wasn't much. But it was something.

Emily made me a grilled cheese, and I ate it because she watched me with those maternal eyes that said she'd force it down my throat if I didn't. The bread was golden and buttery, the cheese melted and stringy, and I chewed and swallowed and tried to remember that I was a person who still needed to nourish her body.

"We should do something tonight," Emily said, leaning against the counter, her arms crossed. "Get the girls together. Just hang out. Get your mind off things."

"I don't know if I'm ready for that."

"You don't have to be ready. You just have to show up." She shrugged. "We can watch shitty movies. Order pizza. Ariana can rant about fashion. Hannah can make conspiracy theories about the kitchen drain. Spencer can organize our bookshelf by color."

I snorted. "Spencer would organize it by Dewey decimal system."

"Exactly. It'll be terrible and wonderful and exactly what you need."

I considered it. The idea of being around people, of having to be present and engaged, felt exhausting. But the alternative was sitting in my room alone, staring at the ceiling, replaying Kendall's voice over and over until I went insane.

"Okay," I said. "Tonight. But I reserve the right to cry at any point and everyone has to be okay with that."

Emily grinned. "Babe, I'm counting on it. Group crying session is practically a sacred ritual in this house."

I laughed again, and it felt a little less broken this time. A little more like something that could eventually become real.

The afternoon stretched on. Emily left to run errands, and I found myself alone again, the apartment quiet around me. I wandered into my room and sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall.

I'd known Harry since I was fifteen. We'd grown up together, gone to every school dance together, shared every secret and every fear. He was the first boy I'd ever loved, the first one who'd ever made me feel like I was enough, and the first one to ever break me.

And I'd let him.

That was the part that burned. I'd let him in. I'd opened my chest and handed him my heart and told him to be careful with it, and he'd thrown it on the floor and stomped on it while some model watched from his bed.

I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, pressing my forehead to my knees. The tears were gone for now, dried up, but the ache remained, a hollow space where my heart used to be.

I stayed like that until the light in my room turned orange with the setting sun. Then I got up, wiped my face, and pulled on a hoodie.

Time to face my friends.

The girls came in waves. Hannah first, bringing a bottle of wine and a box of donuts, her blonde hair tossed into a messy bun and her eyes already glassy with sympathy. Then Aria, who swept in like a hurricane, pulling me into a hug so tight I thought my ribs might crack, her "Louis told me everything and I'm going to kill him" muffled against my hair.

Spencer arrived last, clipboard in hand, already making notes.

"Okay," she said, settling onto the couch with an intensity that made me want to salute. "Here's what we know. Harry Styles, sophomore year, one incident with a cheerleader. Senior year, that girl from the bookstore. Last month, that freshman from his econ class. And now Kendall."

"You've been keeping a list?" Hannah asked, her eyes wide.

"He's been hurting our girl for years. Of course I've been keeping a list." Spencer uncapped her pen. "We're going to go through every single thing he's done, every red flag, every excuse he's given, and we're going to build a case against him. For closure."

I stared at her, a weird mix of horror and gratitude swelling in my chest. "You're insane."

"Insane people get things done." She grinned, sharp and determined. "Now. Starting from high school. Freshman year. Tell me everything."

Spencer's pen hovered over her clipboard, those sharp eyes fixed on me like I was a witness on the stand. The wine was already working through my veins, warm and loosening, and I found myself sinking deeper into the couch cushions, pulling my knees up under me.

"Freshman year," I said, my voice flat. "I don't even remember her name. Some blonde from the volleyball team. He kissed me at a party the week before, told me he'd been wanting to do that for years, and then I walked into the library and found her in his lap."

Aria made a noise like a wounded animal. "He did that to you and you still stayed friends with him?"

"It's complicated." The words came out automatically, the same defense I'd used for years. "He wasn't always like that. He was sweet, when he wanted to be. He remembered things, like how I take my coffee and which songs make me cry. He showed up for me when it mattered."

"He showed up for you," Spencer repeated slowly, writing something down, "but he never showed up for you. As in, he never committed to you."

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. Because she was right. She'd always been right.

"Senior year," I continued, the wine loosening my tongue. "He'd just broken up with someone. I don't even remember her name either. We were at his place, watching a movie, and he fell asleep with his head in my lap. I sat there for three hours, stroking his hair, thinking this was it. This was the moment he'd finally see me."

"What happened?" Hannah asked softly.

"Nothing." I laughed, bitter and hollow. "He woke up, apologized, and went to bed. Didn't even offer me the couch. I drove home at two in the morning with my heart in my throat, wondering what I'd done wrong."

Emily reached over and squeezed my hand. "You didn't do anything wrong, Nikki."

"I know that now." I took another sip of wine. "But I didn't know it then. I spent years thinking if I could just be patient enough, perfect enough, quiet enough about what I wanted, he'd eventually choose me. And the whole time he was out there, choosing everyone else."

"Everyone except you," Aria said, her voice hard. "That's the part that pisses me off."

"And the bookstore girl," Spencer added, consulting her notes. "And that freshman. And now Kendall. He had a pattern."

"The pattern is fear," I said, the realization settling into my bones like lead. "Niall said it last night. Harry pushes people away because he's terrified. And I think he's right. I think Harry's so scared of being vulnerable with someone who actually matters that he keeps picking people who don't mean anything."

"That doesn't excuse it," Hannah said, her voice gentle but firm.

"No, it doesn't." I stared down at my wine glass, watching the liquid swirl. "But it helps. A little. Knowing it was never about me being not enough. It was about him not being enough. He couldn't rise to meet me."

Spencer wrote something down, then capped her pen with a flourish. "Closure case closed. Exhibit A through F all point to one conclusion: Harry Styles is a coward who doesn't deserve you."

"I'll drink to that." Aria raised her glass, and the others followed, a chorus of clinks filling the living room.

I drank too, and some of the knot in my chest loosened.

The night dissolved into Don't Tell the Bride reruns and greasy pizza that we ate straight from the box, sitting cross-legged on the floor like we were back in high school. Hannah fell asleep with her head on Emily's shoulder, a slice of pepperoni still clutched in her hand. Spencer traded her clipboard for her phone, scrolling through something that made her snort every few seconds. Aria curled into the corner of the couch, her designer sneakers kicked off, her eyes drooping.

I sat in the middle of it all, surrounded by women who loved me in ways Harry never had, and I felt something shift inside me. A loosening. A release.

"Hey," Emily said softly, catching my eye. "You okay?"

"Yeah." I smiled, and it felt real. "I think I might be, eventually."

She nodded, a knowing look in her eyes. "That's all we can ask for."

My phone buzzed on the coffee table. I glanced at it, already knowing who it would be. Harry again, using another borrowed number, the message preview lighting up the screen.

"I can be better. I can be the man you deserve. Just give me one chance to prove it."

I stared at the words for a long moment. Some part of me, the wounded girl who'd been waiting six years for exactly this message, wanted to believe him. Wanted to give him that chance. But the woman I was becoming, the one with the calcified heart and the vision of Kendall's legs burned into her retinas, knew better.

I picked up the phone, deleted the message, and turned off my phone for the night.

The girls didn't ask what I'd done. They just let the silence sit, letting me make the choice for myself.

By the time the movie credits rolled and everyone started stirring, I'd made my decision. I wasn't going to let Harry Styles define me anymore. I wasn't going to spend another second waiting for a door that was never going to open.

The chapter of my life where I was the girl who waited had ended last night, in that hallway, with my back against a frat house wall. The next chapter started now, with my girls around me, my heart mine again.

I reached for another slice of pizza and let the laughter wash over me.

The laughter faded slowly, the way it does when the world outside the bubble starts creeping back in. Hannah stirred, blinking awake, and looked around like she'd forgotten where she was. Aria checked her phone and grimaced. Spencer stretched, her joints popping in a way that made me wince.

"I should get going," Hannah said, her voice thick with sleep. "I've got an early shift tomorrow."

The others followed suit, one by one, each of them hugging me tight and promising to check in. Aria lingered longest, her hands on my shoulders, those sharp eyes searching mine.

"You call me if he tries anything. Anything at all. I don't care if it's three in the morning."

"I will."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

She kissed my cheek and left, and the door clicked shut behind her. The apartment fell silent again, the pizza box reduced to crusts and grease stains, the wine bottle empty on the counter. I stood in the middle of the living room for a long moment, surrounded by the debris of a night that had almost felt normal.

Then I cleaned up. I threw away the box, rinsed the glasses, wiped the table. The motions were mechanical, grounding, and by the time I was done, the apartment looked like it always did. Like nothing had happened. Like my heart hadn't been ripped out and stomped on less than twenty-four hours ago.

I slept badly that night. The dreams came in fragments, Harry's face, Kendall's voice, the sound of a door closing. I woke at four in the morning with my heart hammering and my sheets twisted around my legs, and I lay there in the dark until the sun started creeping through my blinds.

When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I made a decision.

I was going to class.

It felt like the bravest thing I'd done in days, walking across campus with my backpack on my shoulder, my hair pulled back, my sunglasses on even though the sky was overcast. I kept my head down, my eyes on the pavement, and I made it to the art history building without incident.

I was early. The lecture hall was nearly empty, just a few stragglers with their laptops open and their coffee cups steaming. I slid into a seat near the back, next to the window, and let the familiar smell of chalk dust and old paper settle around me.

I'd survived the walk. Now I had to survive the class.

The professor's voice droned on about Caravaggio's use of chiaroscuro, the play of light and shadow, the way darkness could make a single glow feel holy. I stared at the projection on the screen and thought about how apt it was. I'd been living in the shadows for years, waiting for a light that never came.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it.

It buzzed again. And again.

I pulled it out, keeping it low under the desk. New messages from Aria, Hannah, Emily, Spencer. All of them variations of the same thing: "Are you okay?" "Do you need us?" "He's on campus."

I frowned at the last one from Spencer.

"Harry's looking for you. He asked Zayn where you'd be."

I locked the phone and slid it back into my pocket, my heart suddenly pounding in a way that had nothing to do with Caravaggio. I had two options: stay and risk him finding me in this quiet corner of the lecture hall, or slip out the back and avoid the confrontation entirely.

I chose the back.

I gathered my stuff in a rush, apologizing under my breath as I shuffled past knees and backpacks, and made it to the door just as the professor turned to write on the board. The hallway was empty, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, and I walked fast, my sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.

I made it to the stairwell before I heard the footsteps behind me.

"Nikki."

His voice stopped me cold. I didn't turn around. I couldn't. Because if I turned around, I'd have to look at him, and if I looked at him, I'd have to remember Kendall's legs in his bed, and I wasn't sure I could survive that twice.

"Please. Just give me two minutes."

I stood with my hand on the stairwell door, my back to him, my chest heaving. The air was thick with the smell of his cologne, that familiar sandalwood and citrus mix that had been following me around in my dreams for years.

"Two minutes," I said, my voice flat. "And then you leave me alone."

I turned.

He looked terrible. His curls were a mess, his eyes ringed with dark circles, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He was wearing a hoodie I'd seen him in a hundred times, the one with the frayed cuffs, and he looked so much like the boy I'd known since high school that it made my chest ache in a way I hated.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice cracked on the word. "I know that doesn't fix anything. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I need you to know that what happened, it wasn't what you think."

"Don't." I held up my hand. "I don't want to hear about how she came onto you, or how you were drunk, or how it didn't mean anything. Because that's what you always say. And every time, I'm supposed to understand. I'm supposed to be patient. I'm supposed to wait while you figure your shit out."

"I know." His eyes were wet. "I know that's what I've done. And I'm not asking you to wait anymore. I'm asking you to believe that I can be different."

"You've been saying that for six years, Harry. When are you going to be different?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His hands hung at his sides, useless and still, and for a moment he looked like a boy who'd lost something he couldn't name.

"I never deserved you," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "I knew it from the first day I met you. And I think that's why I kept running. Because being with you, really being with you, meant being honest about who I am. And I was too scared to do that."

I felt something crack in my chest, a hairline fracture in the armor I'd been building. "That doesn't make it hurt less, Harry. That doesn't make it okay."

"I know." He stepped forward, and I stepped back. "I know it doesn't. I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm asking you to give me a chance to earn it. Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday. I'll wait as long as it takes."

I looked at him then, really looked at him, at the boy who'd kept me on a leash for six years, and I felt the weight of everything I'd lost settle into my bones.

"I'm not going to wait for you anymore."

"I know."