helloo...👋

Which was ironic considering she was now somehow attached to one of the most recognisable men in the world.

The first headline appeared less than twelve hours after she was photographed with Harry Styles outside a bookstore in London.

WHO IS HARRY STYLES’ MYSTERY GIRL?

The wording alone made her want to crawl into bed and stay there permanently.

By the second day, paparazzi photos had multiplied. Her face was suddenly everywhere — blurry screenshots, cropped photos from fan accounts, side-by-side comparisons dissecting what she wore, what bag she carried, whether Harry looked “serious” around her.

She hated how strange it felt to see herself spoken about like fiction.

As if she’d stopped being a real person the moment the internet realised Harry had been seen holding her hand.

The comments came in waves.

Some cruel.

Some invasive.

Most unexpectedly… kind.

That was the part she hadn’t prepared for.

Because yes, people found her portfolio website within hours — which was horrifying in itself — but instead of mocking it, they actually looked through her work. Fans reposted her typography projects and packaging concepts like they were art exhibits. Old interviews from university design features resurfaced online. Her abandoned art account suddenly gained thousands of followers overnight.

Thankfully, her Instagram had already been private long before any of this happened.

“Thank god you’re paranoid,” her best friend Sam had texted.

Y/N had stared at the message while curled on Harry’s couch and muttered, “For once, my anxiety wins.”

Harry laughed from the kitchen. “What won?”

“My need to keep everything private.”

“That’s healthy, not paranoid.”

“You say that because your entire life’s been public since you were sixteen.”

He walked into the living room holding two mugs of tea, sleeves pushed up his forearms, hair messy from sleep. Even dressed casually, he still looked unfairly beautiful in a way Y/N would probably never get used to.

Harry handed her a mug before sitting beside her. “You doing okay?”

The question was soft. Genuine.

That was another thing she hadn’t expected about him — how observant he was. Harry noticed every subtle shift in her mood before she even understood it herself.

“I think so,” she admitted quietly. “It’s just weird.”

“Weird how?”

She hesitated before turning her phone toward him.

On the screen was a TikTok edit of her walking beside him from two nights ago. Slow-motion clips. Romantic music. Zoom-ins on the tiny trinkets hanging from her bag.

Harry blinked once. “Well. They’re quick.”

“Someone commented that I smell like books and iced coffee.’”

A grin immediately spread across his face. “That’s adorable.”

“Thank god they think I'm a librarian.”

“Yeah, an attractive librarian.”

She groaned dramatically, dropping her head against the sofa cushion. “I hate the internet.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I specifically hate strangers psychoanalysing me based on my keychains.”

Harry laughed softly. “To be fair, your bag does look like a travelling memory box.”

She glanced down at it, sitting near the coffee table. A tiny teddy bear charm hung from one side beside an omamori she’d bought years ago. Another trinket was a handmade ceramic from a local artist she loved. Every piece meant something.

“I know, I create sound pollution wherever I go,” she muttered.

“You’re charming,” he corrected.

That word stayed with her longer than it should have.

Because Harry said things so casually sometimes, completely unaware of the effect they had on her.

Or maybe he knew exactly what he was doing.

—

The next evening, Harry made dinner reservations.

Nothing overly exclusive or flashy — just a small restaurant tucked away from the busier streets, warm and understated with amber lighting and quiet music humming through the walls.

Y/N appreciated that about him, too.

Despite his fame, Harry seemed to crave normalcy whenever he could have it.

She wore a simple linen dress and brought her usual bag, the charms softly clinking together every time she moved. Harry noticed immediately when they stepped out of the car.

“You always sound like wind chimes,” he said.

She looked down at the bag. “That’s slightly insulting.”

“I meant it affectionately.”

“Hmm.”

Harry smiled while opening the restaurant door for her. “You’re very suspicious of compliments.”

“That’s because you flirt like it’s a professional skill.”

“It is a professional skill.”

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t stop smiling as she walked inside.

Dinner was easy in the way conversations rarely are with new people.

There were no awkward silences, no pressure to impress each other. Harry asked questions and actually listened to the answers. Y/N talked more than she normally did, animated whenever the topic shifted toward design, food, travel, or the strange little observations she collected about the world.

And Harry watched her as every word mattered.

The ceviche arrived halfway through dinner.

One bite in, Y/N nearly stopped functioning.

“Oh, my god.”

Harry looked up immediately. “That good?”

“This is ridiculous.” She leaned forward for another bite before even fully finishing the first. “The acidity is perfect.”

Harry laughed quietly. “You sound offended.”

“I am offended. Why is this so good?”

He tasted it himself before raising his brows. “Okay, wow.”

“And the fried green tomatoes?” she continued passionately. “That crunch is insane.”

“You’re genuinely emotional right now.”

“You don’t understand the balance happening here.”

Harry stared at her for a second before smiling into his glass.

“What?” she asked suspiciously.

“You’re cute when you care about things.”

Her entire face warmed instantly.

“That was smooth,” she muttered.

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

Which somehow made it worse.

—

By the time dinner ended, the city outside had grown quieter.

They walked back toward Harry’s car side by side, shoulders brushing occasionally. Y/N had just started rambling about how difficult it was to find restaurants that balanced acidity properly when a startled voice interrupted them.

“Oh my god— Harry?”

A small group standing near the sidewalk froze completely upon recognising him.

Y/N instinctively paused beside him.

The fans looked shocked more than anything, clearly not expecting to casually run into Harry Styles outside a restaurant on a random Thursday night.

Harry immediately smiled warmly. “Hi.”

The tension eased almost instantly.

One girl greeted him excitedly before noticing Y/N beside him. “Oh! Hi!”

Y/N gave a shy wave and soft smile. “Hello.”

Another fan hesitated before lifting her phone slightly. “Could we maybe get a photo?”

Harry shook his head gently. “Sorry, guys, no photos tonight.” His voice stayed kind. “Really nice meeting you though.”

To Y/N’s surprise, they understood immediately.

“That’s okay!” one of them said quickly. “We don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering us,” Harry assured.

Y/N relaxed slightly then, enough to shake a few hands when they introduced themselves. The interaction felt oddly normal after that — less celebrity encounter, more accidental conversation between strangers.

“We just had dinner,” Harry mentioned casually.

“Oh! Was it good?” someone asked.

Y/N lit up immediately.

“The ceviche was incredible,” she said without hesitation. “Like genuinely one of the best things I’ve had in ages.”

Harry visibly fought a smile beside her.

“The acidity and sweetness were balanced perfectly,” she continued seriously. “And they added fried green tomatoes for texture, which sounds strange but works so well.”

The fans listened attentively, as if she were delivering important news.

“And it’s not even overpriced,” she added. “The portion sizes are actually great too.”

Harry laughed softly. “She’s been talking about that ceviche for the last hour.”

“Because it deserves recognition.”

One of the fans burst into laughter. “Wait, you’re adorable.”

Y/N immediately looked embarrassed. “Oh no.”

The entire interaction lasted maybe five minutes before they said goodbye and finally headed toward the car.

Once inside, Y/N let out a long breath.

“That wasn’t terrifying.”

Harry glanced at her while starting the engine. “Told you most people are lovely.”

She looked out the window, where the fans were now visibly freaking out amongst themselves.

“I think they cared more about the ceviche than seeing you.”

“As they should.”

—

The videos hit the internet the next morning.

Small shaky clips filmed under warm streetlights. Harry smiled politely. Y/N passionately explaining ceviche like a food critic defending her thesis.

And somehow, the internet became obsessed.

Tweets spread first.

Harry was lovely, but the girl he was with was adorable 😭 She recommended ceviche like her life depended on it.

No, because she genuinely influenced me to go there.

“The acidity and sweetness were balanced perfectly” WHO TALKS LIKE THIS I LOVE HER.

Then TikTok found the clips.

Edits appeared almost immediately. Slow-motion zoom-ins of Y/N smiling shyly. Compilations of Harry staring at her while she talked. Comment sections filled with people calling her “the ceviche girl.”

The funniest part?

People actually started going to the restaurant because of her.

The place became fully booked for the next three nights. Fans posted videos trying the ceviche themselves.

Update: she was right.

I fear Harry Styles’ girlfriend changed my life through seafood.

The fried green tomatoes are insane, actually.

Y/N stared at her phone in horror while Harry laughed beside her so hard he nearly spilt his tea.

“This is humiliating.”

“This is iconic,” Harry corrected.

“They’re calling me the ceviche girl.”

“That’s honestly a brilliant title. For your love of seafood, love.”

She dropped her face into her hands while Harry continued grinning at her openly.

But beneath the embarrassment, something softer settled quietly in her chest.

Because for the first time since being thrown into Harry’s world, the attention didn’t feel entirely cruel.

People weren’t reducing her to a scandal or spectacle.

They saw her as a person. Slightly awkward. Passionate. Genuine.

A girl who got more excited over well-balanced ceviche than celebrity culture.

And somehow, that version of herself surviving online felt a little less frightening.

...

“Well, I’m happy we’re working together.” He slid a plate toward her across the counter. “Here, have a quick snack. I made a lot.”

A club sandwich with fries sat untouched, clearly meant just for her, like always.

“Thank you, Enzo.” She picked it up and took a bite, the warmth of the food grounding her.

The diner was quiet, as usual. Just the two of them running the night shift while the world outside slowed to a crawl. Most customers didn’t stay long anyway, just coffee orders from people waiting for their laundry next door.

“How was school today, kid?”

“It was fine,” she replied softly, already drifting off, her thoughts looping through the same routine: classes, tests, training. Becoming a kindergarten teacher was both exhausting and rewarding in ways she couldn’t quite put into words.

“Earth to kid?” Enzo snapped his fingers in front of her face, pulling her back. “Those kids did a number on you today?”

She let out a tired breath, nodding. “Yeah. They kept climbing all over me during recess.”

She finished the last bite of her sandwich and stood, carrying her plate to the sink. “This was delicious, Enzo. Thank you.”

“I aim to please.” He gave her an exaggerated bow, earning the faintest smile from her.

Fortunately, their shift lasted until two in the morning.

“I’ll go open the cash register,” she said, already moving.

Enzo responded with a small huff, turning back to his station.

Y/N slipped into her nightly routine: flipping the open sign, brewing a fresh pot of coffee, wiping down the tables, and powering up the POS system.

Then, she paused for just a second.

And mentally prepared herself for the long night ahead.

...

Five hours into their shift, Y/N checked her watch.

12:17 a.m.

She sighed softly. Dear God, this had to be the dullest shift yet.

But she knew better than to get too comfortable. It always started like this—slow, dragging, almost painfully quiet—before the late-night crowd trickled in. Drunk customers looking for something greasy, others nursing cups of coffee.

Right on cue—

“Hey, love, give me another cup of coffee.”

Y/N straightened immediately, reaching for the pot out of habit.

Before she could move, Enzo’s voice cut in sharply but controlled.

“Ey!” He leaned slightly over the counter, brows raised. “Maybe talk to my friend properly before she gives you your coffee, huh?”

The man blinked, caught off guard.

“Sorry… miss. Another cup, please.”

Y/N gave a small nod, already pouring the coffee, the quiet clink of ceramic against the counter filling the space between them.

…

As Y/N cleared a table, the soft chime of the door echoed through the diner.

Another customer.

“I’ll be with you shortly,” she called out, only half-heartedly, her voice blending into the low hum of the night.

She wiped the table clean, stacked the plates, then reached for her notepad and trusty pen before making her way over.

The man had already taken a seat.

He looked… off. Like he wasn’t entirely there.

“Hello,” she said, offering a polite smile. “I’m your server tonight. Would you like some iced water while you look over the menu?”

No response.

His eyes stayed fixed on the laminated page in front of him.

Damn. This guy’s out of it. Same, she thought, almost amused.

She tried again, a little more gently this time.

“Good morning, sir. Have you found what you’re looking for?”

A beat passed.

Then he looked up.

His eyes caught her off guard, striking. Blue… or green? She couldn’t quite tell under the dim lights. But they were pretty. Tired, too. Like they carried something heavier than the hour.

“Sir?” she prompted softly.

“I’ll have the chicken special,” he said at last, voice low but steady.

He placed the menu down with care, almost deliberately.

“Just—hold the gravy. Thanks.”

She nodded, jotting it down in one smooth motion.

“Got it. Chicken special, no gravy.”

Y/N stepped up to the kitchen window, notepad still in hand.

“Enzo! One chicken special—hold the gravy, please!”

“Got it!” he called back without missing a beat.

She moved to the POS, quickly punching in the order before leaning lightly against the counter, waiting.

That’s when it hit her.

The drowsiness.

Slow, creeping, settling behind her eyes.

“What would be a good pick-me-up?” she murmured under her breath.

“Coffee? No… I’m already sick of it.”

Then she remembered.

The morning shift had left behind a batch of green juice—something they made for family meals.

She grabbed a glass from the rack, the cool surface grounding in her hand, and poured herself a serving. The pale green liquid swirled softly as it filled the glass.

“Enzo, want some green juice?” she called out, glancing toward the kitchen.

“That green shit?” he scoffed. “No, thanks. Drink it all, Y/N.”

She let out a quiet huff of amusement, lifting the glass to her lips.

“Suit yourself.”

“Two minutes for table two!” Enzo added.

“Got it,” she replied, taking a small sip, the fresh, slightly bitter taste waking her up just enough.

Just enough to get through the last stretch of the night.

As Y/N finished the last of her drink, her eyes drifted back to the man.

He ran a hand through his hair—once, then again—just a little too rough, like he was trying to shake something off that wouldn’t leave.

She paused.

There was still one serving of the green juice left.

“…Might as well,” she muttered under her breath, giving a small shrug.

When the bell rang—

“Chicken special, no gravy!”

“Thank you!” she called back, already reaching for a tray.

She set the plate down carefully, added the cutlery, then grabbed the extra glass of green juice before heading out.

“Here’s your chicken special—no gravy,” she said, placing the dish in front of him. “And a green juice on the house.”

She offered a polite smile.

He glanced at the glass, brows knitting slightly. “Sorry… I didn’t order that.”

She shrugged lightly. “You look like you need it.”

That made him pause.

“And what does that mean?” he asked, quieter now.

She tilted her head, studying him just a second longer than necessary.

“You look tired,” she said simply. “Not sleepy. Just… tired-tired.”

A beat.

“Right,” he murmured, his fingers wrapping around the cool glass. “Thank you.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

“You do that often?” he asked, glancing up at her. “Offer unsolicited remedies to strangers?”

She gave a small shrug. “Well… everyone needs a little bit of kindness.”

His gaze lingered, something unreadable passing through it.

“That’s a dangerous way to live,” he said quietly. “People take advantage of that.”

She didn’t argue.

Just another small shrug.

“Still,” he added, looking down as he picked up his fork, “doesn’t mean it isn’t appreciated.”

A pause.

“Even if it’s misplaced.”

Enzo had seen the whole thing unfold.

He leaned against the counter as you returned, drying his hands on a towel. “That guy giving you a hard time?”

You shook your head, slipping your notepad back into your apron. “Nope. He’s good. The man’s just… tired.”

Enzo hummed, not entirely convinced, but he let it go.

“Alright,” he said after a beat, glancing at the clock. “Hey—almost quitting time. Clean up what you need to clean up, then you head home first. I’ll close.”

You paused mid-step. “Are you sure, Enzo? I don’t want to leave you all alone here.”

He gave you a look—familiar, stubborn.

“We argue about this every shift you take,” he said, pointing the towel at you. “I mean it. You go finish up and go.”

There was no budging him when he got like that.

You sighed softly, but there was a hint of a smile. “Okay, okay… boss.”

“Damn right,” he muttered, already turning back toward the kitchen.

As you moved around the diner, picking up empty mugs and wiping down tables, your eyes drifted—almost without thinking—back to table two.

And there he was.

Sitting quietly, shoulders a little less tense now, absentmindedly sipping the green juice.

The same one he questioned.

You caught yourself biting your lip.

Because for a second there, you thought you’d overstepped—misread him completely.

But he was still drinking it.

Finishing it, even.

And somehow… that felt like enough.

...

The man lifted his hand to signal for his check. You moved quickly, printing his receipt and bringing it over. You also carried a pitcher of water, quietly refilling his glass before leaving him to it.

When you came back, you saw that he had already signed the receipt.

“I hope you enjoyed your meal,” you said softly, offering him a small, polite smile as he pushed his chair back.

“Thank you… Compliments to the chef,” he replied.

You let out a light giggle before you could stop yourself. “Oh, I’ll absolutely tell that to Enzo.”

Your eyes widened slightly as you realised. “Sorry, that wasn’t very professional.”

He shook his head, already reaching for his coat. “No, it was…” He paused, like he was choosing his words more carefully than necessary. “It was nice.”

There was a brief, quiet beat between you. Something unspoken, but not uncomfortable.

You stepped back, giving him space, hands clasped neatly in front of you again. “Goodnight, sir.”

You gave a small wave.

Then he responded, softer this time. “Goodnight.”

You picked up the receipt, eyes flicking down to the total.

Then the tip.

Your brows lifted. “Damn…” you murmured under your breath. It was more than the cost of his meal.

You walked back toward the counter, holding the slip up slightly. “Hey, Enzo—he left us a hundred each.”

You nodded, still a little surprised. “Yeah. And he even said, ‘compliments to the chef.’”

A soft giggle slipped out of you as you replayed the moment in your head.

Enzo turned, eyebrows shooting up. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” You let out a small huff, still a little surprised. “The guy’s cool.”

Enzo shook his head, a grin tugging at his lips. “Damn… he’s being way too sweet with that.”

You hummed softly in agreement, folding the receipt and tucking it away.

He is, you thought quietly.

Your eyes drifted, just for a second, toward the now-empty seat at table two.

You found yourself thinking—

Hope you have a good night. Truly.

...

You quietly finished the rest of your shift, moving on autopilot.

Your mind, unfortunately, didn’t.

I need to finish that report… I need to check on that letter… wait, that bill needs to be paid first, though…

The thoughts stacked on top of each other, faster and faster, until your head felt light.

Dizzy.

“God…” you sighed under your breath.

You flipped the sign on the door to closed, the soft click echoing in the empty diner. One by one, you turned off the lights above the booths, the space dimming into something softer, quieter. Familiar.

Back at the counter, you closed out the POS and started counting the tips for the night.

Your fingers paused mid-count.

“…Whoa.”

You bit your lip.

That man’s tip alone was enough to cover your share of rent for the month. A small, disbelieving breath left you as you finished sorting the bills.

You slipped Enzo’s share into an envelope and walked it over to him.

“Goodnight, Enzo.”

He glanced up, hands still busy with the dishes, music humming softly through the speakers. He gave you a small wave in return. “Night, kid. Get home safe.”

You grabbed your things and headed out the back.

The night air hit you immediately, cool and grounding.

By the time you reached your door, the exhaustion had settled back into your bones. You pushed it open, letting out a tired huff.

Because tomorrow—

Or later, rather—

It was going to be another long, tiring day.

As you drove home, the quiet of the road gave your thoughts too much space to wander.

You thought about how you got here.

Once, you had everything mapped out.

You dreamed big, studied harder, and became an overachiever throughout high school. The kind of student teachers relied on, the kind who always had their hand raised, always had a plan.

And then… somewhere along the way, it shifted.

You dwindled into something quieter. Not a failure, not even close, but no longer exceptional. Just… mediocre. Trying to pass the next class, trying to keep up, and stay afloat.

Now, you have finished your Bachelor’s degree in Early Childhood Education just last year.

And here you were.

Taking morning classes for your teaching certification, juggling training, and doing your kindergarten internship.

Working night shifts in between.

Running on little sleep, stretched thin between who you used to be and who you were trying to become.

Especially when you start to dread the thought of a teacher's salary these days, and student debt you're trying to repay.

The road ahead was dark, lit only by passing streetlights.

You wondered—

If this was always how it was going to feel.

...