PART 1: Alienation
FIRST ERA
There was always someone at school – a willing accomplice – to whom the less motivated students handed their essays, hoping for a last-minute completion. They were usually driven by insecurity, too humble to refuse. Once finished, the helper moved seamlessly to the next task. In this case, it seemed they didn’t even have time for their own work.
At university, that person was Harry Styles. But the currency exchanged wasn’t academic effort; it was bodies.
It was as cruel as it sounded. Unlike the essay-passing students, those offering themselves to Harry weren’t lazy, merely vulnerable. And Harry didn’t move from assignment to assignment; he moved from bed to bed.
I speculated – informed by my Psychology studies – that he was insecure. Though I wouldn’t grant him the benefit of doubt. I, too, was insecure, but I wasn’t found lurking in locker rooms for meaningless encounters.
The moral of the story: I wasn’t a fan of Harry Styles. I disliked him intensely. This wasn’t solely about his lifestyle; he also possessed the irritating arrogance of a privileged fool. He strutted through the corridors, impeccably dressed, perpetually smiling as if he owned the place. A dickhead.
You might ask why I devoted so much thought to someone I despised. Harry Styles had a knack for making everyone feel seen.
Let me preempt any angelic perception.
Acknowledging those who felt invisible was a favorite pastime, but never for altruistic reasons.
Have you ever felt like the sole observer of someone’s true self?
For Harry, befriending everyone was a means to be liked, and somehow, magically, it worked. His sole exception seemed to be me. Whether because people were blind or because I genuinely possessed superior intelligence, I didn’t know. What I did know was that Styles didn’t care for social relations unless they served his advantage.
I may sound pessimistic, but that’s acceptable. I never claimed to know Harry Styles intimately. I couldn’t, since we weren’t friends, and never would be. Though we shared a personal connection – like him and countless other students. I didn’t initiate it, but that was likely obvious.
It began when he clumsily dropped his eraser down the staircase. It bounced along the corridor, landing an inch from the heel of my right sneaker. Instead of retrieving it, I pretended not to notice. Styles, predictably, strode over, crouched, and flicked the rubber into his palm (I observed this discreetly over my shoulder).
As his eyes flickered upward, I returned my attention to the open locker. Knowing he was still crouched, observing me, I assumed he was still inspecting me where I stood. I don't want to sound narcissistic, but I was aware of the fact that people may have found it pleasing to look at my bottom. And in that moment, I was so sure he was staring at my arse that I was willing to bet money on it.
Simply because I found joy in the thought of causing Harry Styles to feel anti-climaxed, I span around on my heels. Dramatically, I leant my back against one of the closed lockers and let my gaze fall down to the gawking boy on the tiles. Crossing my arms, I inspected the—disgusting—smirk on his abnormally pink lips. It was the first time I had ever gained eye contact with the dark spring green eyes across to me. I would imagine mine were gloomy as they met his, whose in my interpretation seemed way more gleeful than they should have been.
"Are you just gonna sit there?" I asked, too calmly.
I wanted to spit the words out, but what was the point? He didn't know me—I only knew him. If my opener had been on the verge to sounding bitchy, I would have looked like an absolute idiot.
The boy whose hair was curlier than I remembered rose from his previous position and casually tucked his hands into his pockets. The same smirk was plastered on his face as he slouched, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. I cringed.
"Are you new here?"
Effortlessly, my jaw clenched. "I've been here a month. Give or take."
Harry’s intentions were transparent. Our interaction had lasted mere seconds, yet I already understood his goal: he wanted to sleep with me.
My assumptions were based on his eyes slowly tracing my form – from my lips to my jaw, neck, chest, arms, stomach, crotch, thigh… back to thigh… again to thigh… finally settling on my white sneakers. His teeth sank deeper into his lip, and I cringed.
"I'm Harry Styles."
He extended his hand. I glanced at it. The thought of touching it made me shrink. Imagine the places that hand had been minutes earlier. Biting my tongue in disgust, I shook his hand loosely. His fingers clenched around my thumb and palm, forcing me to swallow hard. I released his grip as it finally loosened, ready to unravel what I wished I hadn’t.
"I'm Louis."
"Louis." The name felt familiar on his tongue. "Surname?"
"Tomlinson." Harry’s smirk deepened as I continued, "Why do you need that information?"
Harry narrowed his eyes, still pleased. "Is curiosity not allowed these days?" I glared, and he continued pretending to be interested in socializing. "Are you in any of my classes?"
"Why do you assume I’d know?" I questioned, pleased to challenge his self-absorption. "If you hadn’t noticed me, why would I have noticed you?"
"I assumed you knew me," Harry admitted without embarrassment. "Not because I think everyone should, but because we just met and you’re acting like we’ve been enemies for years."
I rolled my eyes, unable to formulate a witty retort. The last thing I wanted was to admit I’d been analyzing his behavior in my spare time. Giving him that satisfaction was unthinkable. I decided to plunge in boldly, because what did I have to lose?
"I just think you should find a better activity than staring at my arse."
Harry’s face didn’t register the expected reaction. The smirk transformed into a toothy smile, and his hands pressed to his hips as he spoke, "That’s a shame, because I’ve been walking down these halls for quite some time now, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better one."
That was approximately what our first interaction consisted of—minus the second eye roll, collecting my books from my locker before slamming it shut and hurrying to my next class. For the rest of that day, Harry Styles disappeared from my vision, which I welcomed. Unfortunately, Harry Styles didn’t—under any circumstances—leave my mind.