#styes

Aviso: Melhores amigos, clichê, fratboy Harry.

Harry Concept #22

— Oiê, tia Anne. — Diz sorridente ao passar pela porta dos fundos da casa do seu melhor amigo, com uma pilha de livros.

Part 1 - Shifted World

Madeline POV

The sun had started its slow descent behind the buildings across the street, its light spilling through the open window like honey. I remember that golden hour — how it clung to Harry’s hair, warm and soft, like the way he used to touch my back when I couldn’t sleep.

We sat on the windowsill of our little rented flat in Silver Lake. It smelled faintly of lemon soap and old wood, the kind that creaks under your weight, no matter how gently you move.

The radio inside played some old Nina Simone song, muffled, her voice drifting like a ghost into the heavy summer air.

Harry didn’t say anything for a while. He just leaned in close, his shoulder brushing mine. I could feel the heat of him — not just his skin, but the way his presence always filled a room, without even trying.

That’s the thing about Harry.

He never tried too hard.

Not with music.

Not with people.

Not even with me.

And yet, I always fell. Hard.

We weren’t always like this — quiet, soft, and steeped in the ache of what might not last. We met at a photo gallery two years ago. He was there for a friend’s opening, and I was late because I’d spilled wine on the dress I thought he might like.

He told me I looked like a dream walking through a storm.

I told him he needed new metaphors.

He laughed.

I guess we both needed something, then — a place to rest.

To feel known.

I loved art.

He loved stories.

I painted things I could never say.

He sang the ones I was too afraid to feel.

Somehow, it worked.

But lately, things were shifting.

Not between us — not exactly. More like the world outside was pulling on us, asking us to choose. His album was taking him to Paris. My work had finally been picked up by a gallery in New York. We hadn’t talked about it.

Not really. But we both knew.

As he leaned closer, I caught a glimpse of something in his eyes — not sadness. Something quieter.

Resignation, maybe. Or hope in disguise.

“You ever think about leaving all this?” he whispered, almost to himself.

I turned to him, my forehead nearly touching his. “Sometimes,” I admitted.

“But not when you’re here.”

He smiled, and it hurt.

Because I knew the moment would pass.

The sun would set.

The song would end.

The future would come rushing in like a wave, and we’d have to choose — to swim or to let go.

But for now, I let my head rest against his. I let the silence stretch. I let the light hold us like a photograph never meant to be taken.

Because this was love, too — not the kind that demands to stay, but the kind that’s beautiful even when it’s almost over.

I let my fingers dangle over the edge of the windowsill, feeling the air slide between them.

Below us, someone was playing a guitar on the street — off-key, a little clumsy, but honest.

Harry tilted his head, listening for a second.

“That’s the same guy from last week,” he said. “Still hasn’t figured out C major.”

I smiled, just a little. “He’s trying.”

He turned his head, looking at me. I felt it before I saw it — that way he studied me like I was something delicate and unrepeatable.

“Are you?” he asked.

I blinked. “Trying?”

He nodded

“Every day,” I said.

“Even when it feels like I’m failing.”

There was a beat of silence, then he said softly, “You’re not.”

I looked at him then. Really looked.

His lashes were long in the fading light, his brow slightly furrowed, like he was thinking too much again. Harry always had that ache behind his eyes — like he was holding songs he didn’t know how to sing yet.

“Tell me something you haven’t told anyone,” I whispered.

He leaned back a little, surprised, but not pulling away. “You first.”

I hesitated.

Then, “When I was little, I used to think love was a place. Like a house, or a city. Somewhere you arrived, and then you stayed.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And now?”

“Now I think it’s… a train station. People come through. Some stay longer. But eventually, everyone’s waiting for something else to take them further.”

Harry looked down at our hands, resting close but not quite touching. “I don’t want to leave the station,” he said, voice barely audible.

I swallowed. “But your train’s coming.”

He turned to me, his expression unreadable. “So is yours.”

I nodded, then leaned my head against his shoulder, just for a minute. “Can we just miss it? For a bit longer?”

His hand found mine. Warm, rough in the center. “Yeah,” he said. “For a bit longer.”

hello! this was a request made by anon a few weeks (or days) ago and last night, i was finally able to listen to cherry and grant her request. 

i hope you enjoy thing super ANGST-y piece about harry’s new album. if you want a request, don’t hesitate to submit something on my ask box. my finals are finally over so i now have all the time in the world to write you guys new fics. thank you so much, by the way, for the 100 notes on late christmas! if you haven’t read it yet, you can do so by clicking on this link: masterlist. 

i hope you enjoy cherry and i will be waiting for your comments! 

WARNINGS: unedited + swearing + super angst + mentions of sex and alcohol

—————————

you grew up in france. harry grew up in england. it was a miracle that you both found each other in such a great, big, world but when life is bored and wants to play, it’s the cruelest thing. you both met when he was on tour. your friend was friends with jeff and invited her to come over to his hotel and have a drink with some lads, since it’s been awhile since they last saw each other. she asked you to tag along, afraid that she would feel out of place in case his famous friends were there. you nodded. 

arriving at the hotel, you were immediately greeted by fans waiting outside the hotel door, wanting to take a peek at the infamous harry styles. you were a fan yourself, and was actually quite nervous to meet him—if you would even meet him tonight. you were dressed in your white shirt, tucked inside denim bell bottoms, and mary janes. natasha, your friend, said that you were underdressed but you argued that it was fine, it wasn’t a big deal. 

you met harry that night, spent the night in his hotel, and met each other a couple of times before he had to leave france. a few months of you coming to his shows, to l.a., new york, and meeting each other’s friends, you made it official. it wasn’t a publicised but you both loved the idea of being protected by the sheets in harry’s hotel room. it was the best thing. 

you met each other’s parents and dated for over a year. it was quite heaven but life works in the worst fucking way possible. 

“hey, y/n?” harry said, over the phone. you were in your apartment in versailles. “mon bébé?” you greeted back. you loved to call him baby, as he was one, behind the closed doors of your secret rendezvous together. “i missed you. i was in this book store with jeff and i thought about you and the nights we spent reading under the covers,” he sighed. you smiled softly, and although he couldn’t see it, you wanted that too. “we can have that again…when you’re on your break, will definitely come down to london and stay there until you’re sick of me,” you chuckled lightly. “will never get sick of you…wanna spend the rest of my life with you,” he murmured. “me too,” your heart was beating inside your chest loudly and so does his. it was a silent, yet fleeting moment but you two loved it. thinking about a home with the both of you and perhaps, a couple more little yous and harries around the house. 

“will you…sing for me?” he asked. he was tired but he wanted to hear your voice again. he wanted you where he was. “i have a bad voice!” you told him. he was the singer between the both of you but seemed to enjoy your voice more than you enjoy his. “don’t care…just sing me to sleep, yeah? i…love the way you sound and your voice…accent, too.” he chuckled. your accent switched in between french and american and it was the most precious thing that harry ever heard. you nodded anyway and sang a la claire fontaine until you heard his breathing grow deeper and slower. you started to hear his loud snores and you giggled lightly. you really do love this man. j'aime cet homme de tout mon tout, you thought to yourself. you really did love harry with your whole everything and wanted for that to be your reality until you both breathed your last breath. 

———

“mon bébé?” you called to harry. he was in london home and your relationship hasn’t been working. the distance for the both of you was far too much for the both of you to bear. so you both decided to just meet in home for privacy. you knew that this was it—it was the moment that you both dreaded but you knew…you knew that this was something that would haunt the both of you forever. “y/n…” he breathed, seeing you in the outfit the first time you both saw him in france. his eyes were blood-shut, as were yours. you had bags under your eyes and was hoping that this was something that you could both end as quickly as possible but it wasn’t possible. it wasn’t fucking possible. 

“harr—i don’t want to do this,” you cried in the middle of his foyer. your bag was on the floor and you were wiping your eyes, trying your best to stop the tears from leaking. you looked like a frail child and harry went to you, locking you into his embrace. “i don’t want this too, love but—we’re just hurting each other,” he says and it was true. over the tour, he managed to kiss someone else in places that only you should whilst you managed to fall back in the pits of longing for your dead ex-boyfriend. he died in a car accident and during a big fight, you told harry that you wished that adrien was still here. you told harry how adrien was better and how you loved him more than you did harry. it wasn’t true. you loved harry with your everything. you loved harry more than life itself but all you did was hurt each other in the process. it was the right love at the wrong time—or perhaps, it was the wrong love all along. you nodded into his white shirt, inhaling his scent. you felt his body wrack and heard his sobs. tonight was the last night you both had together. “i wish—i wish i still had one more day with you. one more night. one more dinner…one more everything of what we did, bébé…i—“ you didn’t know what to say to him. 

“i know…i—let’s just…sit on the couch first, yeah? i’ll get us a drink.” harry removed his body from you but still took your hand as he led you to his living room. he left where you were and went to his kitchen, opening a bottle of wine and pouring some in two coffee mugs. he sat beside you, offering you a drink. you took it from him and gulped the contents in seconds. you wanted to feel numb. “this is it?” you asked him. “this…this is the end of us?” “no, love…i’d still see you around,”

“i don’t want to see you in public and think about what we could’ve been harry—wanna be with you all the time,”

“wanna have you here too, love but…it is what it is. i can’t keep on hurting you and i can’t keep on being hurt,” you nodded. he cried. you made love for one last time. you wrote him a letter and left his home at five in the morning—before he woke up. it took every cell in your body not to cry as you took his tattooed arms from your naked body. you stole three of his shirts and went to his bathroom, spraying all of them with perfume. it would suffice until you’re ready to remove them from your body. 

the next day, harry opened his eyes, feeling you through the sheets, in hopes that his nightmare wouldn’t be his reality. he cried. he saw the letter from you and cried harder. 

mon bébé, 

if you’re reading this, i hope you forgive me for stealing some of your shirts. 

what we had together was something that i will always think about. i will always be grateful for the times that we spend together, for the kisses, your embrace, the sweet glances that we gave each other in the room. when i first met you in france, i knew immediately that i loved you. it was probably a part of the reason why i agreed to spend the night with you…i thought i would never see you again but you asked me what my number was and the rest was history. 

this was the hardest thing that i had to write. our love letters would usually just have the both of us saying i love you’s and see you soon’s but now, we have to say goodbye. i can’t think of a single reason why i wouldn’t marry you. you were my dream boy and i loved the way you made me feel. the thrill of knowing that you love me was what pushed me through when you were in other places and to be honest, i’ll only be thinking about the ways and how you loved me for me to push through. your love was with me even though you weren’t and that will be my motivation to wake up, brush my teeth, and do what i have to do. 

when i said that adrien was a man that you could never be, it was true. adrien was my love and i would never stop loving him. but harry? you would always be my soulmate, the love of my life, and my best friend. we may have stopped talking but you will always be my favourite boy. i will never love someone the way i love you. 

i hope in the future, when you see me, you won’t think about the times we fought and the bad times we had. i hope you see me as your friend and i hope you will remember our times under the covers and how we told each other that we loved each other. i hope you will see me the way i see you, in a good light with love and adoration in my eyes. 

i love you harry. always did and always will. please take care of yourself, mon cherie. 

all the love, y/n. 

————

it’s been a year since that horrific night and it’s december. you were waiting impatiently for harry to release his new album. you and him were friends now but you always felt so distant. he got mad at you when you started to date your ex-beau, vincent. he didn’t like it and no matter how much you tried to friends with him, he wouldn’t budge. it was only a few months after when you saw each other in new york and worked things out. you were still with vincent that time but you were single right now and all you ever wanted was harry.

harry asked if it was alright if he could use the voicemail you left him in his song. you agreed but still haven’t fully heard the whole song with you in it. you were anxious to hear the song and how it will affect you. you’ve been hearing rumours about the whole album was dedicated to you. harry admitted to it, even crying to you one night about how he missed you and how much he wanted to have you back but you were with vincent. it was currently 11:54 in france and six minutes couldn’t come sooner. you heard his releases, watermelon sugar, adore you, and lights up. it was nearing 12 when your iphone notified you that the whole fine line album was downloaded to your music app. 

you immediately fished for your phone, and pressed on golden. you listened util light’s up was over, in shock to hear your voice in his song. it was titled cherry and you smiled—the fruit being a constant motif in your relationship. when you first met, you ate the maraschino cherry from his cocktail. whenever he ordered cakes, you both would compete for the cherry until one of you ate it. 

the song was beautiful, you concluded. it was him mocking vincent and asking you not to call him the way you called harry. it was one of those nights when harry was crying. it was a few weeks after your break-up when he was begging you not to call vincent ‘mon bébé’. you assured him that you weren’t. you sang to him until he fell asleep and cried after your ended the call. there was truth in the whole song, from him having a piece in how you dressed—florals and wide pants to him talking to your friends about how he missed you much. you talked to his friends and he talked to your friends, thinking that it was the only way for the both of you still have a piece of each other. it was sad—really fucking sad but you were at your best now and so was harry. 

it was a full minute or so when you thought cherry had ended, only to be met by your voicemail, the last voicemail you sent to harry. 

Coucou ! Tu dors ? Oh, j'suis désolée... Bah non... Nan, c'est pas important... Bon allez... On a été à la plage, et maintenant on— Parfait ! Harry

the voicemail missed some parts because right now, as you sob into your hands in versailles, you could still remember what you told him. it was just a couple of months ago and you were still with vincent when you left this voicemail. he dropped a voicemail hours ago, telling you a joke about cherries. it fucked you up and in that time in paris, with vincent, you wanted nothing more but to go back to him and his arms. perhaps it was the static or the poor connection but you know what the song had wasn’t complete. 

Parfait! Harry je t’aime toujours et tu me manque. S’il te plaît reviens.

(Perfect! Harry, I still love and miss you. Please come back.)

as you lay in bed, at 2 a.m on december 13, 2019, in versailles, you wondered what the future held. you wondered if there was still a chance for you and harry. you wondered if he would come back into your arms. you cried and then, drifted to sleep. 

read falling here.