Or, that was the word on the street anyway.

 By the end of the first month of my third year, a bone chillingly cold day that had me reaching for the extra warm coat on the rack by my front door, I was well and truly questioning if I thought naked bodies were as erotic as people made them out to be. There was no longer any mystery to the exterior of human body. Taking a drawing module had been a stupid idea for a painter to begin with, but I’d managed to make the choice even more ridiculous by making sure I was staring at naked bodies twice a week.

 I was regretting my decision to broaden my horizons. Until the first day of October, that is. The day I first laid eyes on Harry Styles.

 I saw his magnificently broad, muscled back first. It was enough for the heat to rise to my cheeks and for my tongue to press to the roof of my mouth in a lame attempt to keep a straight face. From his back I could tell he was beautiful, in a way that would have Greek gods envious.

 His head turned in my direction when I knocked a box of pencils to the floor. Muttering to myself, I even down to pick them up. I had to get a grip; he was a nude model posing for a class, not there for my sexual gratification.

 Our eyes met when I stood up and placed the box back of the side table next to my easel. I was winded by the magnetic pull that tried to drag me to him and when his eyes lit up, I felt like I really understood gravity for the first time. There was a gravitational pull that made me wonder if Isaac Newton had gotten it all wrong and it was people not the earth that gravity pulled us towards.

 Even with the distance between us I could see the light in Harry’s eyes. I would later learn that there was almost permanently a glint of undiluted happiness that lived in his eyes, and that looking into his eyes could warm you from the inside out. You just have to be careful he doesn’t set you on fire and watch you burn as you lose yourself in him. I think I knew, even then when I didn’t know his name, that Harry Styles was easy to get lost in.

 Our eye contact broke when the teacher clapped her hands and asked everyone to take their place at their easel. I sat, my eyes still fixated on Harry as he stripped off his pants. For the first time since first year, I blushed furiously at the sight of a naked man. Heat rose in my cheeks and my jaw went slack as I let myself appreciate his naked form. Harry, as with all things he did in life, was a magnificent nude model. Beautifully proportioned, he was muscular while still being soft and lean, Harry standing front on was quite the view.

 I averted my eyes, not wanting my gaze to linger, and busied myself with setting up my station. Kadime leaned over from her spot next to me, a devilish grin on her face. “He’s well fit, wouldn’t mind taking him home for a spin.”

 A feigned horror but nodded in agreement, because Kad wasn’t far off the mark. “Aren’t we supposed to be past this?”

 “Babe, not many models look like that. It’s only natural to want to shag his brains out.” Kad glanced at Harry and giggled. “Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time either of us as shagged the model.”

 My response was to shake my head and laugh. Twice, Kadime hadn’t even made it out of the art room before she got hot and heavy with the nude model. I wasn’t actually sure if there was a student who hadn’t made out with someone in one of the studios, and at least half had gone further than snogging. The room fell quiet then as the teacher called for our attention and explained what she wanted us to get out of today’s class. Mostly, she let us do our own learning and exploring, but some days she told us what to focus on. Today was a little bit of guidance before we started, and they were the days I liked best.

 While the other students dove straight into drawing, I studied Harry for ten minutes before I picked up a pencil. I always acquainted myself with the nude models, learning their every curve and their every defining characteristic by looking them over again and again. I always wondered what lead people to signing up to be a nude model, most of the time they didn’t get paid for their services and it wasn’t often that we saw the same person twice. Usually, you could convince someone to do it once because it was daring and they seeked the thrill of the experience but doing it once was enough. You had to drink the person in while you could because the chances were, you would never lay eyes on them again.

 I was only halfway to being done when time was called and Harry shifted from his stool. Normally, models race to get their modesty back but I watched Harry as he stretched his stiff limbs. Sitting completely still for two hours was more exhausting than people would think. Kadime offered me her goodbyes as she rushed out of class so that she could make it to her textiles class on time and the classroom quickly emptied leaving Harry and I alone. I paid him no attention, not even a quick glance when he turned around to grab his pants, instead focusing on getting a light outline onto paper while the image of Harry’s naked body was still fresh in my mind.

 “Mind if I have a look?” The sound of his voice startled me. I blinked at him passively as I searched for an appropriate response. He had pants on but there was still so much of him exposed, all skin I had the urge to reach out and touch. I kept staring as he introduced himself, not finding my voice until he prompted me for my name.

 “Um, Greer.” My voice was rough, as though I hadn’t spoken in a week because I’d been struck with the flu. But I hadn’t had the flu, I had a case of really bad nerves. “Um, it’s not finished.”

 “Oh.” Harry scratched his head. “Want me to sit back down? The studio is free for the rest of the day.”

 I frowned. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

 “Nah.” He whipped his pants off before I could respond, and I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks again as I realised how close I was to his semi-erect penis. We never got this close to the nude models. Never. “Ah, bollocks! Sorry, I guess you can see I think you’re fit. Bit hard to hide it when you’re naked, innit?”

 “Oh.” The word came out in a rush of air. “I’ll take it as a compliment, then?”

 “Sure, love.”

 Harry went back over to his stool and sat down. Everything was quiet for a few moments as I evaluated where I was with my drawing, and where I wanted to be. “Thank you for staying.”

 “You’re welcome. Though, I’ve got to admit I have a bit of an ulterior motive.”

 I raised my eyebrows. “Is that so?”

 “Yeah. You see, you’ve got perfectly symmetrical bone structure and I’ve got one last series to give for my degree. I want you and your symmetry to be the subject of that series.”

 “Me and my symmetry.” I repeated his words back to him and he nodded ever so slightly. I focused my eyes on my work, mulling over his offer. I’d done some shoots before, my best friend was always in need of a model while she was studying at Central St. Martins and a few acquaintances were photography students at my uni, but nobody had ever asked me to be the central focus of their final portfolio. “Why do you want me and my symmetry?”

 He started to shift but froze, guilt flashing across his face. His questioning gaze met mine and I have a sharp nod, indicating I wouldn’t berate him for moving off the stool. “Why should I let you into the secret circle? I’m the only one who knows about my project, you know.”

 “Why should I believe that you’re a photography student? I mean, you’re today’s nude model.” I sucked in a sharp breath of air as Harry walked towards me, his hands covering his crotch in an attempt at modesty. It was unnecessary really, given I’d already burnt his entire form into my memory. Harry’s body wasn’t one I would be forgetting in a hurry. I could already see the ways I could paint it.

 “It’s a hobby, photography is my lifes work.” He labelled it a hobby so casually before mentioning his work, as if it was normal to consider getting naked for strangers. Like biking or reading in your spare time.  

 I scoffed and Harry seemed slightly offended. “Getting naked for people is a hobby?”

 “You know, you’re awfully snarky for someone who is getting a little one on one time with the nude model.” He sounded miffed and I rolled my eyes at him. It shouldn’t have been alarming that I wasn’t easily believing nude modeling was a hobby. It made me wonder if he was a bit of a weirdo; the kind that should be avoided at all costs. It seemed unlikely though, unless he was very good at hiding his strangeness, because one quirk did not a weirdo make.

 “You’re awfully cocky, but I guess it shouldn’t be surprising given how beautiful you are.”

 Harry smirked, one eyebrow cocked. “You think I’m beautiful?”

 “Yes,” I sighed. I wasn’t ashamed to admit that I appreciated Harry’s appearance. I found every human body beautiful because they were all unique and they were all something to behold, but there was something about Harry’s that had first year blush creeping back onto my cheeks. “But a beautiful exterior is easily tarnished by an ugly interior.”

 “I really am a photography student.”

 “I believe you, photographers tend to have giant egos.” Harry’s brow furrowed and I rolled my eyes. “I’m joking! Lighten up.” His head tilted to the side and his body relaxed, his arms falling to his sides. He gazed at me with curiosity, as if he couldn’t quite figure me out but he really, really wanted to.

 “I think you’re a little bit wild, as most artists are,” Harry commented. He shifted his stance so he was standing straight as a nail, his arms down the front of his body so his hands cupped himself. The muscles in his abs were tight, but there was a soft pudginess to his sides that made me want to reach out and poke him. “I think you and I could create a little bit of magic, you know. We have chemistry, the kind that makes for incredible art and mind blowing sex.”

 Knowing he felt the current that flowed between us, the indescribable pull that made me need to know him better. The overwhelming urge to learn his secrets, good and bad, and know his routine was hard to ignore. “It’s usually one or the other, don’t you think? Good sex or good art. You can never seem to have both.”

 “I think there are exceptions.”

 I slid off my stool, my eyes locked with Harry’s. My fingers found the button that was keeping my tartan skirt around my hips and I undid it in a swift motion, letting the skirt fall down my legs and bundle around my ankles. Harry licked his lips as my fingers grasped the hem of my jumper, his eyes focused on my torso as I lifted the jumper, along with the shirt underneath, over my head and dropped it to the floor.

 “Maybe you’re right,” I said softly, focusing my gaze on Harry’s hand. I wanted him to move them, to let me see him in all his glory. “Maybe we should test that theory.”

 My eyes trailed up his body, taking in the tightness in his abs and the erratic rise and fall of his chest. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and his locked jaw was defined. I stepped towards him but stopped in my tracks when he held one hand out in front of him. His face contorted as though it pained him to say the words that came next. “But not here.”

 A little embarrassed, I shied away from Harry and scrambled to put my clothes back on. I was confident enough in myself to make the first more, and secure enough in loving myself to appreciate my body with its flaws, but rejection in the slightest form was enough to send me running. Harry saying ‘not here’ was enough to pull me out of the heady lust that had drenched my thoughts, and now the switch had been flipped to off, I couldn’t believe how forward I’d been. I grabbed my work off the easel and slipped into into my black portfolio case. Harry was buttoning his shirt when I turned to him and spoke. “I appreciate you staying, but I don’t think… I’m just going to go. Thanks again.”

 I raced over to the door, disappointment washing over me when my hand was on the doorknob and Harry still hadn’t said anything to stop me from leaving. I felt him before I heard him, his hand grazing my back and heat radiating off him. I didn’t know it then, but Harry ran at a high temperature constantly. “Greer! Don’t be daft. I just don’t think it’s wise to fuck someone in the studio when anyone might come back in. The guy over there who forgot his book, or the girl at the back who left her hair clip on the top of the easel.”

 “Oh.”

 “I’m comfortable with nudity, but I’m not someone who gets off on public sex, yeah?” Harry reached for the door and swung it open with a gesture for me to walk through ahead of him. “Besides, I’m bloody starving and if you agree to have take-away with me, I might tell you about my project.”

 Harry and I agreed on a vegan restaurant around the corner from his flat, one that I’d been dying to try and he was a regular at. I text my flatmates his address in case they never heard from me again and told them not to stay up, because I had no intention of being home before they went to bed. My wounded ego from Harry’s ‘not now’ had recovered and I was going to make another move, to see if the chemistry was limited to initial physical attraction or if there was more. The connection I felt during class, when I was studying and drawing his naked body, had inspired my best work in that class, and so I had hope that the connection translated.

 When he spoke about his photography that night, I could see his passion. It was in his tone of voice and his body language, the subtle changes in his body when he mentioned something he was working on or something he wanted to shoot. I learnt that overexposing the lense to light was his signature style, and that he wanted to explore the grittiness and romanticism of underexposure. He was advised not to mess with his style in his final year, and definitely not for his final project, but he was itching to create magic with darkness. In his own words, he wanted to show that love and light could be found in the shadows.

 So I asked him to get his camera out, then I told him to start and that was the beginning of everything.

 ***

 His fingers traced indecipherable patterns on my back and he gave me a lazy smile, the one he always did when he was thoroughly spent. As we had been for most of the week, we were naked in Harry’s bed. A sheet that had once been tucked in was bunched in the corner and the duvet had long been kicked off onto the floor, but even in the cooler October temperatures, we didn’t need bedding. Cuddled close to Harry I was warm enough.

 “Don’t move.”

 “Mm.”

 Harry scooted off the bed and I wasn’t surprised to hear the shutter of his camera go off. He’d been pulling his camera out to capture moments ever since that first night when I posed as Harry’s nude model while he messed around with underexposure. Moments were important to him, he needed them on film as a physical reminder that it happened. He didn’t trust memories to, claiming the brain was wired to let us remember them with blinkers on. Cameras let you capture raw moments exactly as they were, no tampering or forgetting.

 “Your skin looks incredible at half four in the afternoon,” he told me as the camera went off again. Harry liked to work with film, preferring the process of developing negatives and then choosing to digitalise them later if he wanted to. “Every day, it always looks beautiful.”

 “You’re too sweet,” I yawned. My stomach rumbled as Harry knelt on the bed next to me and lined up his next shot. “But your compliments aren’t enough to sustain me. Feed me, please, before I waste away?”

 “You’re always bloody hungry, you would utterly fail at being a starving artist,” Harry complained. “Give me a second, I just want to take a few more, then I’ll make us a green smoothie.”

 Harry was all about organic, fresh foods that were good for you. While I enjoyed a good vegetable and I tried to eat healthily, I was also partial to cod and chips on a Friday night. A Friday night tradition I’d forgone this week for sex and steamed chicken and vegetables with Harry. Which had my friends completely aghast, because I’d never missed Friday night cod and chips but some things were worth it. The orgasm I had that night was one of those things.

 “Or, we could crack open that punnet of raspberries and have them on yoghurt?” I’d never gotten on the green juice or smoothie train, preferring my drinks not to look like bile. Unsurprisingly, Harry loved them. He embraced the artist stereotype wholeheartedly. “You done photographing my arse in the glow of the setting sun yet or?”

 “Yes,” Harry sighed. He put his camera down on the bedside table before flopping down on the bed, letting his head rest on my stomach and his arm wrapping around my torso.  “You’re so grumpy when you are hungry.”

 “Another good reason why you should feed me,” I pointed out. I was playing with his hair, which was long and usually fell around his shoulders in little ringlets, but was splayed over my tummy. “You could go develop that film you were talking about yesterday and I can go to Morrison’s to get supplies.”

 Harry agreed and I left his flat with a reminder not to buy much fresh fruit and vegetables because the farmer’s market was tomorrow and Harry wanted to go. I spent an hour walking around Morrison’s, buying far too much for two people but not caring because walking up and down the aisles was oddly clarifying. My head was full of clouds of lust whenever I was around Harry, I made impulsive decisions and chose to stay in bed with him over almost anything else. I’d known him a week and I had no idea if it was going to lead anywhere, but it didn’t bother me. We were having fun, and nobody was getting hurt.

 I didn’t see Harry again until I had cooked and gotten halfway through the second Bridget Jones’ Diary. He came out of his dark room with the broadest grin plastered on his face and his eyes danced with the kind of glee usually only found in children. “I told you we could make magic happen.”

 He held his hand out for me and I hit pause on the remote before grabbing his hand and standing up. I followed him through to his dark room, my eyes taking a moment to adjust to the red light. 24 photos were hanging from the drying line, and Harry lead me towards them for a closer look. It didn’t take long to see what he meant by magic; our chemistry translated into tangible photographs. They say the best photographs happen when the photographer loves their subject, but simply having chemistry is damn close.

 “Harry, these are incredible!” I gushed, squeezing his hand as I leant into his body. I was wearing nothing but one of his shirts, which was a little tight around my chest but hung loose over my hips. Harry’s hand slipped under his shirt to rest on my waist, and goosebumps broke out over my skin even though his touch was warm. “I don’t care what your mentor says, you need to work with underexposure. This… this takes talent.”

 There was an unspoken agreement that the photos Harry took of me were personal. They weren’t for his project or for a collection or series. They were for us, a physical snapshot of the time we spent locked away in Harry’s flat. We knew we couldn’t sustain it forever, we’d either go our separate ways or things would progress, but it was the way we were for now. People could talk about it in an ugly way, my friends were already starting to, but the photographs shows something beautiful and magical; something that should be treasured for what it was. An undeniable connection to another human being that lit fire to your insides and consumed you in all the right ways.

 “Thank you, Greer, thank you.” Harry’s words were dripping in sincerity but in case his words weren’t enough he also showed me. His lips were moving against mine before I could catch my breath, his hands lifting his shirt over my head as he pushed us back towards the wall. He lifted me up and I wrapped my legs around his waist, and I was gone then. I could feel myself falling further and further into Harry’s world, one where I was not ornamental or an afterthought. I’d been the trophy girl and I’d been the just in case girl, but I’d never been the sun and I’d never had someone who wanted to bask in my warmth the way Harry did.

 Maybe a week wasn’t long in the real world, but in Harry’s flat it was enough for me to realise I’d been living my life in a fog, and I never wanted to go back to the dull haze again.

 ***

Three weeks of what was promising to be the most fulfilling relationship I’d ever had with a man came undone in the space of two hours. When Harry left me at half ten in the morning I was still half asleep and naked in his bed, too tired from broken sleep to get up and have breakfast with him. I didn’t have class that day and neither did Harry, but he had managed to score a meeting with a gallery in Brixton that was interested in displaying his work. When he got back from his meeting, shoulders squared and his face lit up like Oxford Street at Christmas, I was sitting on his sofa working on a sketch I’d started when we were in bed two mornings before. They wanted to show his work, and it would be a rush job pulling it together because the only spot they had for the next six months started three days after his meeting, but what mattered was that they wanted Harry. It was a huge step at the start of his promising career.

 “They loved what I’ve got to offer.” They were the words that came out of his mouth before he kissed me and we celebrated right there on the sofa.

 We cancelled all our weekend plans, including selling our tickets for The Neighbourhood’s gig, and all of Harry’s time and energy went into pulling together his work. Nobody, not his best mates, his sister, or myself, were allowed to see the final series and Harry spent 72 hours locked away. I ensured he was fed, he drank enough water, and slept more than an hour at a time. It was the first weekend like this that I would have with Harry, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Over the course of what would be a 10 year relationship, there were many weekends where Harry had to lock himself away with his creativity in order to put the finishing touches on magic. They were hard weekends but I understood, mostly because I knew the frame of mind well. I slipped on my own creative blinds when I was working on my own art.

 By the time opening night, a Tuesday of all days, rolled around I was bursting to see the final version of Harry’s series. His work with underexposure had taken him outside of his flat, and it was the work that had caught the attention of the gallery owner. He’d seen a few photos on Harry’s website and reached out, which was unheard of. Artists were usually begging to have their work shown, especially in the early stages of their career. The Tuesday afternoon was spent naked with Harry in an attempt to distract him and calm his nerves, and the early evening was taming our wild manes of hair and removing a food spill on Harry’s suit jacket.

 I didn’t know it when we were standing in his doorway kissing, but it had been days since Harry had screwed everything up. Those two hours he was gone for the meeting had changed everything and set us on the path to destruction.

 I lasted at the opening for seven and a half minutes before I left with my stomach doing flips and tears running down my face. I tried to hide my hurt when we first walked in and I saw my naked body from many, many angles all over the walls. I tried for Harry’s sake, because I didn’t want to fight on what was a massive night for him, but I failed. He immediately noticed the change in my disposition and questioned why my mouth was pressed into a thin line instead of a beaming smile. I brushed it off as a nervous stomach for him and the moment he was ushered away by the managing director I made my great escape.

 I was comfortable with my body and I was okay with Harry taking photos of my naked body, but I wasn’t okay with those photos being shown to the public. I felt violated; he’d taken my trust and snapped it in half with the same lack of care that goes into snapping twigs for kindling.

 I’ve never dwelt on the days that followed the opening. I cut myself off from Harry; my friends ensured I was inaccessible to him and when we didn’t attend the same university it was easy to avoid him outside of class. Those days where I was nursing a shattered heart and trying to glue the fractured pieces of my life back together were some of the hardest of my life. I never thought that I would face anything more heartbreaking. To 23 year old me, Harry’s actions were the most humiliating act of betrayal.

 For six long days, we came to a gut wrenching end before we really had a chance to begin.

 All it took was for me to find Harry crying on the steps of a pub for us to kick start again. I’d been out with my friends and I was leaving without them because they’d found their hookups for the night but I couldn’t even look at another guy without comparing him to Harry. Getting back on the horse had been the idea, but it wasn’t right. I stumbled over a body when I walked out the door, and it took me all of two seconds to realise who it was.  

 “Harry?” I tilted my head and squinted as I tried to make sure the curled up figure was in fact Harry. “You alright?”

 “M’fine,” came the muffled response. He was curled up in a ball with his head tucked between his legs and his chest. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, Greer.”

 I sighed. “Look at me, you daft sod.”

 Harry lifted his head and I sat down on the step next to him. I reached out to wipe his wet cheeks, shaking my head at the way he was pouting. “I’m so fucking sorry, G. They only wanted shots of you, they saw the magic, and I got so caught up in the whirlwind I didn’t stop to think about what I was doing. Please don’t hate me.”

 “I don’t hate you, H,” I whispered, the choking emotion make it hard to talk. “I’m disappointed, I’m hurt, I’m angry, but I don’t hate you.”

 “I took them back, I said I’d get them something better. I wouldn’t let any of the sale go through or anything,” he told me, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. “I know it’s probably too late, and I know the damage is probably already done, but I’m sorry. I want to fix it.”

 “I’m the foolish one for letting a guy take naked photos and not making sure you knew they were for our eyes only.” My housemate had pointed that out on day three post opening. It was the harsh reality of nude pictures.

 “No,” Harry shook his head. “I should have spoken to you about displaying them instead of assuming you’d be flattered and love the idea. You trusted me implicitly and I broke that trust. What we did… it was so raw and intimate and it was fuckig magic Greer, but it’s magic whether the world sees them or not.”

 I reached for Harry’s hand then and nothing felt like home the way his hand clasped around mine did. The only time in my life when my permanently cold hands weren’t icy was when they were encased in Harry’s sweaty warmth,  and that freezing night on the first night in November I’d never needed to be home so much in my life. “It hurt the most because I thought you knew me enough to know I’d never want that. But… it’s been four weeks and how could you know me? I got too caught up in how natural we felt to remember that we were nothing but a blip in a very, very long life.”

 “Time is not a measure of love, substance, or worth.” Harry pressed his lips to my forehead and sighed. “The fact remains that I was a selfish twat who heard high commission and future wall space and jumped into it. I should have checked with you and I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m going to burn the photos and the negatives so nobody ever gets their hands on them again.”

 He yelped when my fist collided with his thigh. “Don’t you dare! Even if they are just for us, they are too good to be reduced to ash.”

 “If I promise not to burn them, will you let me photograph you again? Fully clothed this time. I’ve got an idea.”

 I hesitated for a moment because we were sitting in the freezing cold on pub steps at two in the morning after days of not talking and it seemed to simple to resolve the fight in a ten minute conversation. That forgiving him already was too easy.

 “Look, I won’t burn them either way but if you decide to say yes, I’ll be at the park on bonfire night. Meet me there at nine, yeah?” Harry stood up and offered me his hand. We hugged when I was standing and then we both ordered an Uber. As we climbed into the cars Harry said he hoped to see me on the 5th of November. I had no idea if I would go to meet him when I got into the passenger seat of my Uber, and I don’t think I did know until the night of.

 The moment I spotted him taking photos of the crowd I knew I’d made the right decision. A calmness settled over me that wasn’t there without Harry in my life, and I was instilled with a sense of security. The kind we all crave in another human being.

 Harry seemed surprised to see me when I tapped him on the shoulder, and the surprise quickly turned to relief and then utter glee. We stood together while the bonfire was lit, Harry standing behind me with his arms wrapped around my shoulders. Selfies on his iPhone captured the moment and looking at them years later, I could see that even then that love was blossoming between us. Harry’s dire need to capture moments proved to be a blessing as life went on.

 It was bonfire night that year where ‘An English Girl’ started. Under the flickering orange light of a bonfire Harry captured something that I didn’t really know existed within me. A series of complex contradictions were brought to life with underexposure and hazy, darkness. They are the images that made Harry’s career, and the ones that inspired 10 years of dedication to one subject. For Harry, like his love for me and his passion for life, ‘An English Girl’ was never complete. For years, it has been thought that Bonfire Night was the start of Harry’s obsession with documenting and capturing his girlfriend/fiance/wife, but it started weeks before in an art studio and then in his flat where we found a level of intimacy we’d never reached before.

 Bonfire night was the world’s magic, but that dingy flat with a leaky roof and squeaky bed was our magic. They were the days we fell in love and discovered each other. It was where we lay the foundations that we built our life on and maybe we didn’t have an eternity together, but we still had our happy ending. For that, I am entirely grateful.

 ***

 Moments in time are a funny thing. They are fleeting and can feel so insignificant when they happen. A moment can morph into something memorable with hindsight, or it can be so easily forgotten that it’s easy to question whether the moment even occurred at all.

 Harry Styles, and many moments with him that followed the day we met, was memorable. I couldn’t forget him if I tried; not the way his eyes were a deeper green in the dim light of my flat, not the way his thumb would always stroke whatever part of me he was touching, not the way his rising star peaked too soon and burnt out before he had a chance to revel in his success, and certainly not the way he loved to passionately and unconditionally. He was a man who left his mark, leaving a flurry of important and heartfelt moments in his wake as he moved through life.

 My life and soul were forever shaped by the man who loved me so completely and so honestly that losing him nearly broke me irrevocably. But the thing about life is that it is constantly moving and it will leave you behind if you do not pick yourself up and push on. So that is what I did; I lived a life without him. A life that was sadder but no less full of love or light, for Harry was with me everyday in our daughter’s eyes and our son’s laugh. He was gone but we carried on because our hearts still beat and our lungs still filled with air. We were the living, and we had to live.

 I am not saying I did the best job of living, but I did the best I could. There were days where the heartache left me halfway through a box of tissues on the bathroom floor and other days where the neighbours fed the children because I couldn’t remember how to turn on the stove. Death and grief  does that to the living. It erodes our minds and washes away our ability to do the simplest of things because it’s too busy holding onto all the memories we are desperate not to forget.

 I lost the greatest love of my life suddenly and in what feels like the most cruel way. One moment he was telling me he loved me and that he would be home to put the children to bed and the next he was the victim of someone else’s stupidity. That moment, the one where he said ‘I love you, Greer. I’ll be back before the kids go to sleep.’, was so inconsequential at the time. It was something he had said a hundred times before but with hindsight, that moment is now so important. The last thing he said to me was so routine and ordinary that it took days for me to remember what he said. I still question what his exact wording was, and I’m almost certain that I will never be entirely sure because it all happened so fast and when the words came out of his mouth I didn’t think they were important enough to store away in my long term memory. I’ll never stop wondering exactly how that moment played out but my solace is that we have many, many more moments that I do remember with such stark clarity I often forget they are the past and not the present.

 My hope, for you all, is that you find someone who colours their world in a way that compliments the way you colour your own. Many of you never knew my husband but you appreciated him for his talent and the light he brought into the world. I’m sure it would not take much for you to imagine how brightly his world was coloured, and how magnificently his married up with mine.

 It has been a trying year in my world, and I find comfort in all of your messages. I am so grateful to you all for sharing the ways Harry touched your lives. It is heartwarming to be reminded of how loved and cherished he was, even by people he had never met. If he was here he would be giving you all a dimpled smile and thanking you for your kindness.

 I like to imagine that’s what he’s doing up there and I hope you do too.

 I thought it was fitting to share the story of how we met, and how the photo series that defined his career transpired, on the anniversary of losing Harry. ‘My Heart’s For You, it Lies Awake’ is a collection of memories I’ve committed to paper, with the intention of never forgetting. I hope by writing our story down it transcends the limitations of life and death, and that it lives on to maybe people come to a better understanding of ‘An English Girl’ and why Harry dedicated his life’s work to photographing one person.

 This is for you Harry. You woke me up from a fog I didn’t know I was in and together we had a life I couldn’t have dreamed of. My love for you will never die, it burns brighter each day I live.

 Yours eternally,

Greer

Greer Styles: Columnist, author, painter, widow, mother, girl in those photographs, and completely disorganised basketcase. Back in the pages of your Sunday paper whether you like it or not.

***

 From the Editor:

In honour of the life and work of photographer Harry Styles, his wife Greer has chosen to showcase never before seen photographs. Taken in the early days of their relationship, the images are raw and intimate and capture the passion felt in the first few weeks of a new relationship. The short story, ‘My Heart’s For You, it Lies Awake’, is a written account of how the couple and photographs came to be and will be released in pocket book size to accompany the exhibition. An excerpt accompanies Greer’s column this week to mark the anniversary of her husband’s passing and the return of Greer to the pages of the weekend paper.

 As a long time friend of the Styles family, I’ve witnessed the past year for them. The pain they felt when they lost their husband and father, and then the resilience of a strong family unit who found a way to survive after tragedy. I asked Greer how she did it one day and her answer was simple: ‘Harry lived by the words strength through adversity. We grew stronger as a family in the face of the hardest time of our lives.”.

 We could all learn a little something from Harry Styles, even a year after his passing.

 The real life story of a couple whose love and passion has been documented so thoroughly is not to be missed. Book on sale next month and tickets for Harry Styles: A Legacy of Love are on sale now. Do yourself, and everyone you know, a favour and get down to see a magnificent exhibition.

 Kadime Yze

‘I’m messing with you, Tabs, I’m happy for you, this will be good for you.’ I bit my lip and kept my eyes focused on the pavement, telling myself to stop being a little whinny bitch and ruining Tabitha’s moment. After all, this was good for her! She had gotten her very first job only 3 months after she had finished her degree, and leaving her tiny loft in London was a small price to pay if she wanted to put her veterinarian degree to good use. Of course, she would also be leaving me behind, and that was the bit I had a hard time dealing with.

Over the past 3 years I had gotten pretty used to Tabitha being around, feeling like a protective older sister towards her even though it was a mere 2 years gap between us. We had been there for each other for the past 3 years of break ups, hock ups, deadlines and all nighters, and even gotten through a couple of seasons of X Factor and Strictly Come Dancing. We were basically family, and we even had each other’s spare keys!

So when I shoved Tabitha’s bedside lamp on her already stuffed backseat, I was saying goodbye to much more than a neighbour. And worst of all, I would be saying hello to a new neighbour the next day. As if Tabitha’s departure wasn’t bad enough for my shattered heart!

‘Abi, you’re not gonna cry, are you?’

‘No!’ I was lying.

‘Oh, Abi, please, if you cry, I’ll cry! Besides, you won’t be alone long, tomorrow morning you’ll have a brand new neighbour.’

‘Yeah, right, that’s just great.’ I scowled.

‘It could be a menswear model!’

‘Tabs, please, we both know it’ll most likely be a creeper, like that guy from across the street that preyed on you for like two months when you first moved in.’

‘Adam, his name’s Adam, and he’s not a creeper, he’s just… lonely.’

‘Ok, if that’s what you’re calling stalkers now, I’ll let you know if my new neighbour is a “lonely” madman. Or woman.’

Tabitha hesitated before she entered the drivers seat for a second, and flung her arms around my neck in an unexpected gesture of affection, seeing as she was supposed to be the tough one of the two of us. We finally detached ourselves from each other, drying the few tears that had maybe their way down our cheeks during the embrace.

‘Now you be nice to your new neighbour, you hear me Abi?’

‘Only if he’s as mind-blowing as you, Tabs.’

‘Well, let’s not get our hopes that high, shall we?’

She was right, a neighbour quite like Tabitha would be hard to find, if not impossible.

I stayed in our driveway, waving at her with a new set of tear already rolling down my face, until her car was nothing more than a red dot on the distance, and praying to God that the next day would bring with it at least a half decent next door neighbour.

I should have known better than that, though.

***********

The next morning, I was roughly awakened by a loud conversation happening outside my window, forcing my eyes to flicker open to the soft light of a cloudy September morning. I padded towards my bedroom window, stretching my back and rubbing my eyes along the way, and opened the blinds. A moving truck was parked on the other side of the narrow street, and a bulky man with sweat dripping from his forehead was gesticulating furiously to a tall guy with long hair, who had his back turned to me. While their heated conversation caught the attention of most neighbours, two guys wearing bright orange shirts with the moving company’s logo obediently stacked piles of furniture on the sidewalk, awaiting for further instructions.

‘We got the furniture to the front of your house, that’s what was stipulated! That’s what you paid for!’ the sweaty man said to the long haired lad, cleaning the sweat from his face with his forearm.

‘But I can’t carry everything alone into the flat! At least help me out the heaviest stuff.’

‘Listen son, this was the arrangement, I bet you have a bunch of lovely neighbours who will gladly help you out, but my job here is done.’ the fat man turned his flustered face to his two employees, who stood speechless besides the stacks of furniture, seemingly ashamed of their bosses rudeness towards the client. ‘Mark, Spencer, let’s go, we’re done here!’

Before the two guys could enter the van, his boss cleared his throat loudly and stared once again at my unfortunate new neighbour.

‘You know, it’s of good nature to leave a tip for these guys here, they’re paid by commission.’

The long haired guy hesitated for a second, probably stunned by his bluntness, before he fished out a few pounds from his pockets and handed them to the workers. Everyone was terribly uncomfortable now, except for the fat jerk who was into de van and out of sight in a heartbeat.

Even I was feeling sorry for the guy when he turned around and I saw his face for the first time. He was good looking, I’ll give him that, but the distance and the panicked expression that contorted his facial features didn’t let me assess his looks efficiently enough.

He was gazing all around him, looking hopelessly baffled by the unfamiliar surroundings, searching for a kind face that would reassure him he hadn’t made a terrible mistake by moving to this neighbourhood and help him get his furniture in its rightful place.

Well, not even his lost puppy face would make me get out my pyjamas on that Sunday morning, partly due to my undeniable laziness but mostly because I resented him about Tabitha’s departure. Sure, he had nothing to do with it, he most definitely didn’t even know who had left the flat he was now going to inhabit, but the irrational part of my brain was still fairly convinced that he was an enemy I ought to stay away from.

So when he turned his gaze in the direction of my window, I swiftly pulled the curtains together, even though he had undoubtedly seen me in that split second.

Great, now he thought I was a bitch. He was not far from the truth, but still, it was a harsh judgement to make before he had even gotten his belongings past the front door.

Someone would help him, eventually, even if it turned out to be the creepy guy from across the street (pardon me, Adam) so I stopped myself from feeling bad about the stranger standing in my driveway and got on with my day, being that, even though it was a Sunday, I had plenty of work to do.

What no one tells you when you’re taking a design and multimedia degree is that web designers get no time off the job. Despite how much I liked my job, I would really appreciate a single weekend when I could just lay on the couch like the lethargic self I truly am on the inside, instead of spending 5 hours on a row staring at a computer screen, trying to figure out how I could make a website for a mortuary services company look appealing and at the same time respectful. A tough job for a cloudy Sunday, but that’s exactly what I found myself doing during the entire afternoon, sitting at my kitchen table.

Working in the kitchen used to be the most obvious option in my flat to do so, as it was the chamber with better natural lighting and I was surrounded by food, turning my trips to the fridge or to the coffee machine not only more frequent but also quicker. But, starting on that same day, my kitchen began to have a very distracting problem. My kitchen window had a perfectly distinct view to my new neighbour’s similar kitchen, being that our flats had the exact same layout, and our kitchens the only meeting point between us. This wasn’t a problem when Tabitha lived there, once she understood that my sacred workplace shouldn’t be disrupted at any time, especially when I was frowning deeply at my computer screen. The more unpleasant my facial expression was, the more work was getting done, and Tabitha was totally aware of that.

My new neighbour, comprehensively, wasn’t up to date with my work method. I couldn’t blame him, obviously, but the fact that he and Adam (I knew he was going to take the chance to help out the newbie, probably looking for his next prey, that perv! Maybe I should let the new guy now about his modus operandi… Oh, well, someday) where dragging every piece of furniture around the house and shoving dishes, glasses and pans into the kitchen cabinets made it impossible for me to concentrate, even after I closed my window in an attempt to tune out the noise.

Tabitha called just when I was uploading photos of deceased people into the website, but good looking deceased people, mind you, because it was supposed to show the work of the mortuary’s make up artist. Even Tabitha’s squeaks on my ear couldn’t cheer me up after those images.

‘Sooooo, how’s the new neighbour?’

‘Weird. How’s your new neighbour?’

‘Someone’s in a bad mood.’

‘Sorry’ I breathed out, taking off my glasses and rubbing my already tired eyes ‘I’m just working.’

‘Oh, it’s that bad?! What is it this time?’

‘A mortuary service trying to make dead people look good.’

‘Ouch. Tough Sunday afternoon. Maybe you should stop now and go give a warm welcoming to your new neighbour. And by the way, I have no neighbours here, so stop with the jealousy act.’

‘What do you want me to do, bake a pie?’

‘Yes!’

‘Tabs! It’s me, I live off macaroni and cheese and Chinese take away. And how come you don’t have any neighbours?’

‘I’m literally in the middle of nowhere, Abs! They put me in this really cute cottage, very Little House on the Prairie, adorable, really, but I’m surrounded by trees and cows.’

Tabitha already knew she was being hired by a large farm that needed a resident veterinarian, she ought to know what was coming, but she still managed to complain about a handful of things before turning the conversation in my direction. After she was done commenting the atrocities the humidity was doing to her hair, she charged at the neighbour subject yet again.

‘But enough about my new country life, tell me about your new neighbour! Is it a girl? A boy? A hot boy?’

I glared out of my window to the disorganisation that was happening on the kitchen opposite of mine. The new guy and Adam were carrying a heavy looking table to the corner of the kitchen, both of them looking positively ridiculous with their flushed cheeks and sweaty foreheads.

‘I already told, he’s weird.’

‘Oh, so it’s a he, that’s nice.’

‘No Tabs, not nice at all. And he’s already friends with Adam the creepy guy, so they’re probably bonding over how perverter they both are.’

Even as I spoke, I knew I didn’t believe what I was saying. I mean, yeah, the guy was weird, but not a pervy kind of weirdness, just… harmless weird, if you will. A second glance through the window presented be with the new guy’s bum, while he tried to lift a cardboard box off the floor. He was wearing a pair of very (and I mean very) tight black jeans, worn out brown leather boots and a Hawaiian like shirt, with the first four buttons undone, showing his tattooed chest. Two sparrows adorned either of his collarbones, facing each other. Like I said, weird.

‘Abs, are you there?’

‘He looks like a surprisingly successful cross over between a middle aged dad on vacations and a pretentious rockstar about to take part in an orgy.’

My description was met with silence from the other end of the line.

‘Ok, that’s… ok.’

‘And he has birds on his chest.’

‘A middle aged dad slash rockstar with birds on his chest? That sounds terrific Abs.’

‘Listen Tabs, I really need to get this website done before the presentation tomorrow. I’ll talk you as soon as I got any more information on our bird guy, but I gotta hung up now.’

‘Mind you, your bird guy.’

************

Almost a week went by without another glance at the bird guy, even though I had no idea how that was possible. Did he not eat, for God’s sake? Or was he a nocturnal creature, and our paths simply never crossed? Either way, it seemed like I didn’t even had a new neighbour to worry about, which was exactly what I wanted in the first place. Right?

It was Friday morning when I saw him again, when I was already scared he was dead in his bedroom the all time, while I drank my first cup of coffee of the day leaning against the sink. When I turned around to rinse the empty cup, my eyes drifted from the flowing water to a shadow of something move on the other side of the window. And that’s when I saw it. And I really mean it, because the first thing I got sight of wasn’t the bird guy, but rather his penis.

I can’t tell which one of us was more mortified, but it might was well be me. I dropped the cup on my hands, covering my mouth instead (why didn’t I cover my eyes? We may never know), to suffocate the scream that was most certainly forming in the back of my mouth.

For a second neither of us dared to move, just standing there staring at one another (ok, maybe I stole a look or two at his shaft. I might’ve been impressed), until the bird guy made a move to cover himself up and my hands flew from my mouth to my eyes, much too late. When I looked through my fingers a little while later, he was sporting an apron that read “KISS THE COOK” in bright red. The entire situation was too much of an humiliation for us to stay serious, so we eventually started laughing, each one in the emptiness of it’s one kitchen, doubling over to grab our stomachs and catch our breaths.

After the laughter, thought, we were left looking at each other awkwardly from across our windows, the whole event sinking in and making it look utterly disgracing once again. I started playing with the string of my sweat pants, not knowing what else to do, and the new guy scratched the back of his head. Even though we were separated by two windows and a few meters, and we could just both turn away and move on with our lives, it didn’t seem right to end an encounter like this with that kind of attitude, so I stupidly waved at him, and made him a sign that was supposed to meant I had to go. That was probably more humiliating than seeing his dick, but he waved back nonetheless, and smiled before turning around, probably forgetting that the apron only covered his front and so I was left staring at his bum. I didn’t complain, though, and only left the kitchen when his ass was out of view.

By the end of the day, when I arrived home after an extenuating day at work, a little paper box with a bright post it glued to the lid was awaiting for me on my door step.

“I profusely apologise for this morning, I’ll keep my privates for myself from now on. H .xx”

Inside the box was a red velvet cupcake with white frosting, definitely from… Henry? Harrison? Heath? God forbid him from being a Herbert! Or Hannibal! Anyways, it was a sweet (in both senses) apology from my neighbour whose name starts with a H.

Granted, the cupcake proved to be excruciatingly sweet and I was nauseated after the third bite, but I found that gesture so charming that I forced myself to eat as much of it as I could without risking vomiting.

For some reason, I found myself sticking the fuchsia piece of paper on my fridge, maybe as a reminder of that morning or maybe just until I unsolved the mystery behind that single letter H, and placed the remains of the cupcake on the fridge, even though I probably wouldn’t have the guts to have another try at it any time soon.

I obviously then proceeded to call Tabs (who had had a long day of delivering calves in the mud and rain) and fill her in on every detail about H, even though I didn’t get into much detail when it came to his privates (I’d rather keep that to myself).

‘Abs, that’s so rude! He’s the new neighbour, you’re the one that’s supposed to greet him with food, not the other way around!’

‘That cupcake most definitely didn’t qualify as welcoming food, it fell more on the category of “sorry you saw my penis” food.’

‘Abs, still! You have to give him something now, for God’s sake, you were face to face with his dick!’

‘Tabby, it was not face to face, ok? And I’ll send him a note or something, it’s not a big deal.’

‘Well, was his dick a big deal?’

‘I’m gonna hung up now Tabs, I think that’s best for the two of us.’

The next morning, when I was sure H wasn’t home, I stuck a piece of paper beneath his door. Despite spending a fair amount of time thinking about what I should write, and even considering baking some sort of cake at an ultimate act of despair, I settled for a rather unimaginative message that went something like ‘Thanks for the cupcake, it was lovely. My friend Tabs said it was my turn to offer you food, but I can’t cook, so you’ll have to settle for take away. Chinese or Thai?’

I thought about signing just with an A, but that was a bit too Pretty Little Liars to me (even though he probably would get the reference) so I skipped all the mysterious bit and straight up let him know my name was Abigail, and that I was lousy in the kitchen.

The response took longer than I was wiling to wait, and it came in the worst possible moment, which already seemed to be the norm in our dysfunctional liaison, if it could even qualify as that.

Even though my proud ego made it hard to admit it, I did check out if there was any movement on the window opposite of mine a few more times than what was strictly necessary, making me resemble Adam The Creeper to some extent. I was obviously creeping myself out more than I was my absent neighbour, but by Sunday evening I had pretty much come to terms that H wasn’t around, and probably wouldn’t be so soon, so I let my hair down and treated me to a glass of red wine after I had finished the paperwork needed for the busy week ahead of me.

Feet propped on the kitchen table, (second) glass of wine in my hand and my iTunes playlist blasting from the speakers, I actually felt like loosen up, which happened once in a blue moon for an almost permanently stuck up person like I was. It came with the job, an impenetrable resting bitch face and a perfect sense of boredom towards the outside world.

After refilling my third glass (and I was making sure I was topping those glasses, so my already poor vision was getting worse by the minute), Candy Shop came on shuffle. And we all know what that means. You can’t just sit with a stick up your arse when Candy Shop is on, not even me, so I started wavingmy arms around and bobbing my head to the rhythm, which was as far as I would go when it came to dancing.

It was during one of my many twirls, this time to the sound of Hey Ya (another classic, need I say more?), that I saw a yellowish light coming from outside my window. I froze mid twirl, my mouth agape as my eyes focused on the brightly lit kitchen where H stood, his arms crossed over his chest.

He looked handsomely tired. His face was pale safe for the dark circles under his eyes, but his cheeky grin made it all look composed, like a tortured artist whose insomnias fuel his art. For the first time, the sight of him provoked a physical reaction in me, my palms getting sweaty and my throat drier, even though that could be related with the fact that my lips were still stupidly parted while I studied his figure in a fitted pair of jeans and an expensive looking grey wool sweater. Not even seeing his dick made me feel like that, and believe me when I say it was something worth seeing.

I took another long sip from my half empty glass as a form of liquid encouragement and waved at him with my free hand. He waved back, but holding a piece of paper between his slender fingers (I tried the best I could to focus my eyes back on his face and not giving further thought to what wonders those long fingers could do. I tried, barely succeeded though).

Oh shit the note! That’s what’s on his hand, the stupid note I wrote him babbling about Tabby, and Chinese and Thai take away… Shit! And now I’ve sobered up.

He looked amused by it though, raising his eyebrow in an arousing manner while he read throughout it that made my lower stomach clench with desire. Blame it on the alcohol, Abigail, blame it on the alcohol.

I shook my head, partly to disregard his smirk, but mostly to clear my head and dissuade myself from the steamy scenarios filling my head, and wisely decided to call it a night, emptying my glass of wine before waving H goodbye and turning off the kitchen light, retreating to my room, where this stranger’s charms couldn’t reach my decreasing sense of decency.

************

H and I engaged in a silent morning routine from then on. He would appear in the kitchen when I was filling my last cup of coffee of the morning, normally in his pyjamas bottoms or boxers, not letting me take another peak at his privates ever again, much like he had promised, ruffling his messy brown curls and usually stubbing his toe in some piece of furniture that stood in his way. After a string of what I could only guess were swear words, he would look up, already smugly expecting to see me looking back at him, laughing at his pained face. We didn’t do much more than acknowledge each others presence on the other side of our window and raise our coffee mugs as a salute, but it somehow had a soothing effect on me after the third morning on a row. I would jump out of bed in a chipper mood, anticipating the moment my new neighbour would join me for breakfast. Granted, we were a few meters apart while we did so, but it was more than I had had in a long time, and it made me feel less lonely. Not that I even knew I felt lonely in the first place, but that realisation sunk into me whenever H took longer than usual or skipped breakfast altogether.

I liked to wallow in the thought that he might’ve felt the same way about my company, especially after one day when I was the one to dishonour our breakfast appointment, by leaving earlier for work, and I came home to a note shoved under my door, asking if I was ok (still signed with “H .xx” though, that guy must really have a problem with his name).

The month of October swiftly passed like this, our little pattern never leading us to anything more than waves from behind closed windows or notes beneath front door, and it was beginning to feel ridiculous the fact that I had no idea what his voice sounded like or even his first name, for God’s sake! I was fully certain that I wanted to know all these things about him, at least I thought I wanted, up until the moment I had the chance to solve all these mysteries and my thirst for knowledge was quickly overshadowed by apprehension and uncertainty.

That opportunity came in the form of a letter, when I was flicking through my mail one calm Saturday morning and came across a letter for one Harry Styles. And that’s how the identity of “H .xx” was unveiled, by a mistaken mailman that shoved his mail in my mail box, which was a rather dull manner of uncovering all the enigma surrounding my new neighbour, in my honest opinion. Mister Harry Styles was a lucky lad, because that letter didn’t seem to contain bills, credit card extracts nor coupons for frozen yogurt, which was all I got in my mail at least. No, this letter was handwritten by some Anne Cox, and whoever that person was, she was thrilled about the Halloween season, because the envelop was sealed with a glittery pumpkin sticker.

So, confronted with not my new neighbours name but also a letter written by his presumable childish girlfriend (glitter?! I mean,really, this is not the 90’s), I did the only thing I thought was fitting for the occasion. I called Tabitha.

‘Tabs, his name is Harry. Harry Styles!’

‘Oh my God, does that mean you two stopped with that stupid “waving mugs at each other” thing and actually got the balls to communicate like normal people?’

‘Well, not exactly… I got a letter in my mail that’s addressed to him. It’s from someone named Anne Cox and she is fairly excited for Halloween.’

‘Abi, did you open the letter?!’

‘For fuck’s sake Tabs, of course not, who do I look like, my mother?’

‘Yeah, you’re right, sorry about that.’

‘I just said that Halloween bit because she put a glittery pumpkin sticker on the envelop.’

‘Uh, we got ourselves a case of underaged girlfriend. Or loving niece, maybe…’

I turned the letter over in my hands, analysing the calligraphy. Didn’t look very niece-like to me.

‘So, what did he say when you gave him the letter?’

‘I haven’t exactly given him the letter yet…’

‘Abigail!’

‘What? He’s home, I normally just snuck notes under his door when he’s away.’

‘Then maybe it’s time for you to grow a pair and deliver it by hand.’

‘That sounds terrifying to be honest.’

‘Abi, woman up. Please, hung up right now and go ring his bell.’

Tabby was the one to hung up before I had time to whine any longer about my poor social skills, but I could still hear her voice whispering “don’t be a little bitch” on my ear, as a form of unfit encouragement.

After a few minutes of pacing around my short corridor, I was beginning to feel rather ridiculous about all this new neighbour thing. I mean, he was just a guy that happened to leave across from my kitchen window! I just had to walk 10 meters or so to reach his front door, knock on the door and politely hand him the Halloween themed envelop. Easier said than done, though.

Eventually, I did bring myself to leave the safety of my house and stand on his little porch. But that’s all I did for a while. I raised my hand a few times, decided to knock on the door or ring the bell, but something would stop me mid-gesture, forcing my arms to return to their original position.

I was already making my way out of his porch and into the street when I heard a door opening behind me, even though I hadn’t had the guts to knock before I left.

‘Oh, hey, I thought I saw you out here. Is everything ok?’

His voice didn’t sound weird, thank God, no pre adolescent squeaks nor threatening barks. It was soft and melodious, much like he appeared to be. I was so awestruck I was actually listening to him that I didn’t say anything for a long while, just stood there while he made his way towards me and extended his hand in my direction.

‘It’s Abigail, right?’

I shook his hand and nodded, positively amazed at how good my name sounded like when it was said by him.

‘And you must be… Harry Styles?’ I said, finally pulling myself together and showing him the letter in my hand, pretending I had to read his name again to remind myself of it. ‘It was in my mail this morning, the mailman must’ve made a mistake.’

‘Oh, thanks, yeah, it’s from my mum.’

Wow, ok… No childish girlfriend nor loving niece. Just a devoted mother who probably wished his son was still young enough for her to make him a Halloween custom, which most definitely made me wonder juts how young (or how spoiled) Harry was.

‘Well, I think I better go now.’ I started walking backwards towards my own house, trying to swiftly pull myself out of this embarrassing situation

‘Don’t you want to come inside? For a cup of tea or something?’

He had hopeful puppy eyes, and I was having hopeful thoughts about getting to actually know him (and maybe a few more things, but that was easily suppressed), so I gingerly followed him inside. I instantly felt like I was home once I was past the front door, and not in some cheesy emotional way, it was just that his house was exactly like mine, except for some minor differences in the decoration (he had a preoccupying amount of modern looking paintings hung on his walls, some of them with a pretentious sexual essence, but still tasteful).

He didn’t have to point me where the living room, bathroom or bedroom were, because I knew the exact layout of his place, but I obediently accompanied him to the kitchen while he talked about his mother was a sucker for every single festive holiday, and also for handwritten letters, even though she understood how to perfectly operate a cell phone or a computer.

The conversation flowed effortlessly over cups of tea and cinnamon biscuits, but I couldn’t help wishing this would be our new morning routine after that day, certain that returning to the shy waves would be unbearably vapidand shallow compared to this new found proximity.

‘We should do this more often.’

Wait? Did I just say that out loud? What’s wrong with me? I immediately regretted it, and focused my eyes on my hands, avoiding Harry’s gaze while I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks.

‘We should totally do this more often. It’s much more fun than waving at each other every morning. I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow it’s your turn to give me breakfast. And I prefer tea to coffee.’

When I finally looked up again, Harry was winking at me, and he seemed honestly eager to have breakfast with me again the very next day. Maybe I had found myself as good as a neighbour as Tabitha was, who knew? Maybe with even a few more benefits in the long run. If he ended up liking X Factor and Strictly Come Dancing, we might as well be matches made in heaven as far as neighbours go.

‘It’s nearly lunch time.’ Harry said, while he cleared the kitchen table and rinsed the two mugs.

‘Yeah, I should probably go.’

‘Actually, I was thinking take away. Chinese or Thai?’ I studied his face for a moment, afraid he was just making fun of my previous note to him, but his grin didn’t look malicious at all, so I gave in to the comfort and familiarity of his company, taking my jacket off and sitting back.