Harry's POV
What I craved was love. I'd experienced relationships, crushes, fleeting connections, but they always felt temporary.
As high school neared its end, I pictured myself living alone in an apartment, subsisting on my dad's Costco membership. It felt inevitable. Love, as I envisioned it, wasn't just a fluttery crush—though that sensation, so vividly portrayed in romance movies, held a certain appeal. It was something deeper. I’d always wondered if the love felt for family was anything like romantic love. Even if love wasn’t fluttery all the time, but just a constant, comforting affection, I wanted it.
I wanted to love someone completely, truly, even if it ended in heartbreak. Just for a little while, I wanted to experience that feeling.
It was the first day of my senior year, and I hadn’t even registered for classes. We’d just moved to town; the moving truck was still being unloaded. “New year, new school,” my dad liked to say. This was our annual routine: pack up at year's end, choose an obscure town at least two thousand miles away, and move. I suspect my parents, both freelancers—a writer and a photographer—never had much opportunity to travel in their youth, and they didn’t give Gemma and me much of a choice.
I woke up, showered, dressed, then changed my outfit and dressed again. Then I ran downstairs, grabbed a quick bite, and hopped in the car with my mom to head to the guidance counselor’s office.
“So, you still need a math credit, a science credit, history, English, and a language to graduate. Any particular interests?”
“What’s available?”
She listed off classes in each category. I chose whichever sounded easiest.
“Just one moment.” She printed my schedule, handing me the paper. “Here you go.”
“So I start today?”
“Just like that.”
I left the room, comparing my schedule to the map she’d given me. “D101, where the hell is the D building?” I flipped the map, heading in what I thought was the right direction.
“Need a little help?” A soft voice, with an Irish accent, came from behind me. I turned to see a teenage boy with blond hair and kind eyes approaching. He wasn't one of those guys who wore their pants below their knees and smoked weed behind the school. He wasn’t a jock in uniform, or a nerd in plaid shorts. He looked like a drama kid, or maybe an artsy musician—or perhaps both.
“You okay?” He waved a hand in front of my face. “I’m Niall. Do you need help finding your class?”
“Yes!” I said, grateful for his offer. “Where’s the D building? I don't even know what building I’m in now.”
“You’re new? Freshman?”
“No, I’m a senior. I transferred from another school.”
“Oh, okay. We’re in the A building now. B building is through there, C building past that, and D building is that way. Take a left, down some stairs, another left, through a couple of doors, and you’re there. Actually, let me just show you. I have class in D101 anyway.”
“Oh, wait, same.”
“Great, makes my job easier.” He laughed.
I followed Niall past a group of what I guessed were indifferent jocks. We reached the D building, and I was breathless. I tried to steady my breathing, but it came out in small puffs. I didn’t want to reveal I was out of breath.
We entered the classroom; class had already begun.
“Since it’s the first day, you can take a seat. Next time, bring a note. If you don’t have it beforehand from the office, I’ll make you leave class to get one. Alright, I’ll take attendance now.”
“Andrews, Carson, Garner…” A chorus of “Here” followed each name. I zoned out until I heard “Styles.”
“Here,” I said, snapping out of my daze.
“Tomlinson.” The teacher continued.
She finished after a minute or two and began discussing the syllabus. I hadn’t looked around the room yet, so I did. I immediately spotted three nerds, a couple of cheerleaders, four passionate jocks, one indifferent jock, six drama kids, and three musicians. The only person I couldn’t see was the one behind me. I didn’t want to risk awkward stares by turning around in my seat to look. I told myself I’d look later, after class. I have a bit of an obsession with sociology and classifying people, fitting them into stereotypes. High schoolers were the most fascinating because just from the way they acted, and dressed, down to their hair, and their small mannerisms, you could pretty much tell the types apart immediately. With adults it was more difficult; everyone had a life they dressed for—a job, a party.
At the end of class, the teacher assigned a short essay. It was time for another emotionally draining class. I stood up and grabbed my bag, turning for a glimpse of the boy behind me. I stopped.
He was shorter than me, with kind eyes and short, feathery brown hair. A small frown played on his lips. Usually, my first goal was to classify someone then move on, but my brain felt frozen, unable to wrap my head around him. Besides the fact that he was really fucking pretty. I shook it off and left the room, Niall ran to catch up.
“Where’s your next class?” he asked.
I pulled out my schedule, flipping it before reading, “C302.”
“I have that too. Let’s walk together.”
“Niall? Who was that guy sitting behind us?”
“Which one? Short stature, big personality? Varsity jacket?”
Passionate jock, had to be, I hadn’t even noticed the jacket. “Yeah, that one.”
“That’s Louis Tomlinson. He’s super popular, really nice. Got held back a grade two years ago, so he’s a bit older.”
“Why was he held back?”
“He flunked some classes after his girlfriend passed away. He missed a lot of school… Everyone felt really bad for him except the teachers.”
“Oh, that’s heavy. I was expecting bad grades, not childhood trauma.”
“No, he’s really good at school, gets amazing grades most of the time.” Was Louis a nerd? “He’s also a really good musician, and he’s in drama club.”
Passionate Jock, Nerd, Drama kid, Musician? Which was he? How many things did he do?
“What else does he do?”
“He’s captain of the football team. You could probably tell that from the jacket.”
“So what is he?”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s his classification? His clique?”
“He sort of hangs out with whoever happens to be there. He does everything.”
I shook my head. We reached the C building.
Math class… We arrived on time and entered quietly, finding a couple of open desks. Niall sat on one side, and the other side was empty. Class started.
“Alright, let me take attendance.”
“Annie Cartwright, Gary Edmonds, Elizabeth Gainer, Niall Horan…” Again, I zoned out as the teacher read off the names.
“Harry Styles.”
“Present.”
“Louis Tomlinson.”
I listened for his response, didn’t hear it, then looked around to find that he wasn’t in the classroom. My mind drifted to where he could possibly be. The perfect boy skipping class? Or maybe he was just late?
Louis didn’t show up to class. Nor did he show up to the next one… In fact, I didn’t see him at all for the rest of the day.
Niall and I had most of our classes together. I was glad since we got along well. He was informative, funny, and seemingly hungry. I’d given him every snack I had throughout the day—granola bars, fruit, chips… What a funny kid.
I went home with a smile. Sure, the classes were boring, but I’d made a friend, and found an unclassifiable teenage boy—something I’d never encountered before. All in all, I had a good day. That night, after dinner, I went upstairs. My room was unfamiliar, strange. My bed tucked against one wall, mattress against the other, desk, and several boxes occupied it. It was bigger than my last bedroom. It even had its own bathroom. Our last house had one bathroom downstairs to share, and now we had three in one house…
I dragged my mattress across the room, flipping it carefully onto my bed frame. Then I dug around in the boxes until I found a set of sheets and a couple of blankets. Making my bed, I flopped onto it, then got up, pulling my personal notebook from out of my school bag and opening it.
“Louis Tomlinson,” I muttered as I wrote it at the top of the page. Underneath the name, I made a bulleted list and began to fill it out. I thought back to those brief moments I’d actually looked at him. “Captain of the football team…” My pen was running out, so I scribbled at the top of the page until the colour returned. “Theater kid, Musically talented, Good grades…” I thought for a minute about his physical characteristics. “Short, brown hair, pretty eyes.” I looked, startled at the page, crossing out “pretty” multiple times until you couldn't tell what word it had been. Why had I written that? I jotted down “Blue” next to “Eyes.” I closed the notebook, shoving it into one of my desk drawers.
I undressed and got under the covers, looking up at the ceiling. In my last house, I’d had a sprinkle of glow-in-the-dark stars plastered above me when I slept. I missed them. I fell asleep thinking about plastic stars and pretty blue eyes.