PART 2: Botheration
If I were to detail every pathetic interaction with Harry Styles following his acknowledgement of my existence, I’d be blathering for days. Instead, I’ve outlined a summary of our “conversations,” because frankly, they were remarkably similar.
Typically, he’d start with “Hi there, sweet cheeks” if alone, or “Hey lovely, wanna catch up after school?” if with his friends. Once, he even had the audacity to ask, “Hi babe. Sorry I couldn’t meet up yesterday, I had loads of errands. Maybe we could do it in the toilets during lunch?”
I cringed every time. Don’t get me wrong, he was devastatingly handsome—God, I hate admitting that—but his attitude was enough to induce nausea. I was sick of him, and the longer he continued, the sicker I felt. It never stopped.
After his opener, I’d usually roll my eyes (my favourite pastime), or deliver a witty retort. I took pride in it, even knowing it might be *why* he kept singling me out in the corridors.
I realise this makes it sound like I was a continuously humiliated target, which is far more dramatic than reality. I wasn't alone, as you might assume. I gravitated towards my best friends, particularly Niall.
To Niall’s disadvantage, we shared a dorm. I say that without knowing if he actually *liked* it, but I suspect he found my messiness infuriating.
Our room was square, with two beds—each thirty-eight inches—at either end. A small desk, a questionable chest of drawers, and the coveted en-suite bathroom (envied by every student on the corridor) completed the space. Cream-white wallpaper covered the walls, with Niall’s side dominated by posters of golfers or bands I didn’t recognise.
I liked football, and that was pretty much it. My musical tastes stopped at Green Day. Consequently, my only decorative object was the trophy from my football victory, displayed on my nightstand. However, Niall and I rarely spent time in the dorm beyond sleeping—if we slept, and managed to avoid all-night nonsense debates.
We usually hung out in the library or on the campus’s expansive lawn. The library, contrary to expectation, wasn't a study hall, but a social hub. I was a good student, but not a “geek.”
As you’ve likely guessed, I played football—but I actively avoided the “jock” stereotype. Those guys were always arseholes, and I wanted no association with that image. I was a decent player, gradually climbing the ranks. My ultimate goal was captaincy, but I doubted it would ever happen.
Besides Niall, I had three close friends: Adeline, Elise, and Caleb.
Adeline and Elise were both blonde—Elise verging on ginger—and shared unsettlingly similar eyes. Adeline was perpetually attached to a boyfriend, which meant I met new people frequently. Elise, on the other hand, was always single, so I could relate to her.
Caleb was a “pretty boy.” Everyone called him that, not because he was handsome, but because he was *too* pretty. His dark hair was perpetually perfect, and his chocolate eyes glimmered—enhanced by long, dark lashes. He was dessert incarnate, but I considered him only a friend.
Caleb also played football, one reason we bonded. Adeline and Elise…well, how to categorise them? They were those girls who strolled around campus with happiness radiating from their Starbucks-clutching hands and textbook-toting arms.
None of these people had slept with Harry Styles. Obviously not—they were friends with *me*. If they had, I probably wouldn’t have befriended them in the first place. Okay, I’m exaggerating. The truth is they all disliked him, perhaps because they knew I did.
The day “it all” started was when Caleb, Niall, Elise, and I (everyone but Adeline, presumably making out with her boyfriend) were hanging out in the library—not studying—and Harry and his friend, Zayn, decided to wander into the same aisle. They drew attention, searching for a book in the overstocked shelves. That’s when Elise decided to brutally ruin my day.
“Looking for *Fifty Shades of Grey*?” Harry’s head snapped towards us. “It’s two rows down, to the left.”
Niall cackled, covering his mouth while the rest of us chuckled quietly (Niall laughed at everything Elise said because he was hopelessly crushing on her). I deliberately avoided observing Harry’s reaction, determined to avoid nausea. But that particular day, my decisions didn't matter.
“We were actually looking for *Lord of the Rings*,” Harry said, smugness radiating from every pore. Even without looking, I could feel it on my skin. “You know, the one with the ogres?”
Elise snorted. “They’re hobbits.”
“There are actually ogres in it,” Caleb added.
I spotted Harry’s polished boots moving closer. A chuckle escaped him, and I automatically tensed, hoping he wouldn’s acknowledge my presence.
“The whole gang is hanging out here, I see. Except for precious blondie, Addie, of course.” He paused, inching closer. “What’s up then? Just chillin’ out?”
“Why are you trying to make small talk right now…?” Elise questioned, the only one with the guts to speak up.
“Agh, come on. Why wouldn’t I? We’re all friends. Aren’t we?”
Sure—we’re friends like sharks and minnows.
“I mean…” Elise chuckled. “If that’s what you call friends…”
I felt his gaze lock onto me.
“Tomlinson and I, we’re friends,” he said, and my stomach shrunk fifteen times over. “Aren’t we, sweet cheeks?”
After minutes of resisting, my gaze finally met his. The same smug face, but in the yellow lighting, he looked strangely approachable. The dimples carved into his cheeks sent shivers down my spine. It was unfair how someone so disgusting had been blessed with such features.
“We’re not friends,” I tried to sound arrogant, but my voice trembled. I sounded like I was dying, judging by his expression. Gathering courage, I snapped back, “It’s understandable that you want to be, though. I get that a lot.”
Caleb and Niall both chortled.
“‘Course you do.” Harry’s smirk widened, and a second later, he winked. “You’re the prettiest guy on campus.”
With that, Harry Styles left the fantasy aisle, leaving me to fantasise about holding my tongue. My friends didn’t react because that’s how Harry always spoke to people. But somehow—for some reason—I had a strange feeling this time, Harry had been genuine.
But what difference would that make?