Chapter 1: The Midnight Text
The pillow still smelled like him. That stupid, expensive cologne he wore to every game, the one that clung to his jersey and his skin and my sheets no matter how many times I washed them. I pressed my face into it and breathed in deep, and for half a second I could fool myself into thinking he was here, his arm looped over my waist, his chest warm and solid against my back.
But his side of the bed was cold. Empty. The sheets were wrinkled where he'd been, fooling around with me earlier tonight before he'd slid his jeans back on and said he had to go help Zayn with something. "One hour," he'd promised, kissing my forehead. "Maybe two. I'll be back before you know it."
That was three hours ago.
My phone buzzed and I lunged for it, heart slamming against my ribs. Not Harry. Louis. I stared at the name, a cold vine curling through my stomach. Why would Louis be texting me at two in the morning? Why wouldn't Harry just text me himself?
Hey, Harry said he crashed early. Don't wait up. He's fine.
I read it twice, three times, the words blurring together on the screen. There was something wrong with it. Louis never texted me. We were friends, sure, but we talked through group chats and parties, through Aria. He didn't send me solo late-night updates about Harry's sleeping habits. That wasn't how we worked.
And Harry never crashed early. Not when we had plans. Not when he'd promised to come back.
I hit call, pressing the phone to my ear hard enough to hurt. One ring. Two rings. Three. Then that machine, his recorded voice, cheery and light and so completely out of sync with the stone dropping through my gut.
"Hey, you've reached Harry! Leave a message and I'll hit you back. Unless it's Kendall, then I might take a while."
That message was old. From before us. A joke he'd made years ago that he'd never bothered to change. But it still sliced through me, sharp and stupid, and I hung up without leaving a word.
The silence pressed in. My room had never felt so loud before, the refrigerator humming in the corner, the radiator ticking, my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. I pulled the pillow against my chest, hugged it tight, and stared at the ceiling.
I knew Louis. I'd known him since I was fifteen, since he and Liam and Niall and Zayn and Harry had been inseparable assholes in the high school cafeteria, always shoving each other and laughing too loud. I knew Louis's tells. The way his eyes darted when he lied. The way he got too smooth, too casual, rehearsing his words like lines in a play.
This text had that same energy. Too polished. Too calm. A perfectly manicured message designed to make me stop asking questions.
But I had questions.
Where was Harry crashed? At the frat house? In his room? Or somewhere else entirely, somewhere Louis was covering for?
I dialed again. Straight to voicemail. His phone was off. Or he'd rejected my call. I didn't know which was worse.
My thumb hovered over the group chat, over Liam's name, over Spencer's. I could text Spencer, ask her to have Liam check. But that would set off alarm bells, send questions rippling through the whole friend group. And if I was wrong, if Harry really was just passed out somewhere, I'd look like a clingy, paranoid girlfriend.
But I wasn't wrong. I could feel it in my bones, in the cold knot tight as a fist in my chest.
Harry had sworn I was his world. He'd promised he'd never give me a reason to doubt him again. And I'd believed him. God, I'd believed him so hard that I'd let him back in, let myself fall all over again, let myself believe that maybe, just this once, I wasn't going to be the one left behind.
Now I lay in my dark room, his cologne fading from the pillow, and the silence where his reply should have been told me everything I didn't want to know.
Something was wrong.
I just couldn't prove it yet.
Something was wrong. I just couldn't prove it yet.
I rolled onto my back and stared at the water stain on the ceiling, the one that looked like a sad cartoon cloud if I squinted. Harry had pointed it out the first time he'd slept over, laughing and calling it my ceiling's existential crisis. I'd hit him with a pillow and he'd pulled me against his chest, murmuring jokes into my hair until I forgot what I was supposed to be mad about.
That was the problem. Harry made me forget. Every time. He made the sharp edges go soft, made me believe that trusting him wasn't a stupid, dangerous thing to do.
And now here I was, at two in the morning, counting the lies I could feel stacking up in the dark.
I grabbed my phone again. Opened the thread with Louis. Stared at his message like it would crack open and confess if I glared hard enough.
Hey, Harry said he crashed early. Don't wait up. He's fine.
I'd known Louis Tomlinson since freshman year of high school, when he'd thrown a chip at my head in the cafeteria because I was reading a book he thought was pretentious. I'd called him an asshole to his face. He'd grinned and introduced himself properly. We'd been friends ever since.
Louis lied all the time. To professors. To coaches. To his parents. To Aria about where he'd hidden her secret chocolate stash. But never to me. Never in a way that mattered. Louis had covered for Harry once before, that night with Kendall, and the guilt had eaten at him for weeks. He'd blown up at Harry in front of everyone about it, calling him a spineless coward.
So why the hell was he doing it again?
Unless it wasn't a lie. Unless Harry really had crashed.
I flipped over, shoving my face into the pillow, and let the cologne fill my nose. Maybe I was being insane. Maybe he'd helped Zayn with whatever broke, worn himself out, and passed out on the frat couch in his clothes. It happened. Guys did that. Harry had done it before, texted me a blurry picture of Zayn's spilled protein shake on the kitchen floor with the caption "crime scene" and a string of laughing emojis.
I sat up. Swung my legs over the side of the bed. My feet hit the cold floor and I flinched, but the chill was good. It cut through the fog of my spiraling thoughts.
I called again. One ring. Two. The third ring died and the voicemail picked up, his recorded voice bright and stupid and years out of date. "Hey, you've reached Harry! Leave a message and I'll hit you back. Unless it's Kendall, then I might take a while."
"Harry, it's me," I said, my voice cracking. "Louis texted me. Said you crashed early. That's not how your voice sounds when you're sleeping. Call me. Please. I just need to know you're okay."
I hung up before the beep finished. My hands were shaking.
I sat there in the dark, the phone screen burning white in my lap, and I tried to play detective. If Harry had really crashed, his phone would be on. He slept with it on his chest, I knew that, because he was afraid of missing a call from his sister or his coach. He never turned it off. Not once. Not even when his battery was at two percent and he'd left his charger at home.
So why was I getting voicemail?
Unless he'd silenced my calls. Which meant he knew I was calling. Which meant he was awake somewhere and choosing to ignore me.
Or he wasn't at the frat house at all, and Louis was covering for him, and the phone was somewhere Harry wasn't.
I pressed my palms into my eyes until I saw colors. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat, in my temples.
Where the hell are you, Harry?
The question sat in my chest, hot and jagged. I kept my eyes closed and listened to the hum of the dorm building: a toilet flushing down the hall, the groan of pipes, a faint bass line vibrating through the wall from the neighbors who never slept.
I sat there for a long moment, my phone still bright in my hand, and I told myself I was going to do it. I was going to pull on my sneakers, throw a jacket over my pajamas, and walk the ten minutes to the frat house. I was going to bang on the door until someone answered and I was going to look Harry Styles in his green eyes and ask him to his face why his phone was off and why Louis was lying for him.
I even moved. Got as far as the edge of the bed, one foot on the floor, before the thought hit me like a wall: what if he actually answers?
What if I walk in there and Harry's fine, and I look like the crazy girlfriend again, the one who couldn't let a single night go? What if I see Louis's face when I show up, that carefully neutral mask he wears when he's bracing for something ugly, and I just know? What if I find him with someone? What if I find Kendall?
What if I find out he's been lying to me this whole time, that the months of apologies and promises and "you're my entire world" were just words he was good at saying?
What if I have to see it?
I sat back down hard. Pressed my palms into my thighs until my nails bit. My breath came out shaky and thin, and I hated myself for it. I hated that I was afraid. I hated that I'd rather lie here in the not-knowing than stand up and face whatever truth was waiting for me.
But I was. God help me, I was.
I switched my phone to silent. Set it face-down on the nightstand so I couldn't see if he texted. Pulled the covers up to my chin, then rolled over and grabbed the pillow that still smelled like his cologne. I held it against my chest, hugged it tight like it was him, and closed my eyes.
I didn't sleep. Not really. I lay there in the dark and think I just let the night wash over me. The radiator ticked. The bass from the neighbors thumped. My own heartbeat pounded in my ears, and every time a car passed outside I stiffened, listening for footsteps on the stairs, for a key in the lock, for Harry's voice calling my name.
He didn't come. Of course he didn't.
And I didn't go. I stayed in my bed, in the warm dark, the pillow his scent fading against my cheek, and I told myself I was giving him the benefit of the doubt. I told myself I was being mature, that trust meant not pouncing on him the second something felt off.
I told myself a lot of things that night.
What I didn't do was admit the truth: I was too scared to find out if my heart had been broken again.