In My Feelings | Harry Styles

Six

November 1, 2020

As you brushed your teeth, you tried your best not to get toothpaste on the little lamb's face. You were leaning over your sink, almost bent at a ninety degree angle with the sleeves pushed all the way up to your elbows.

You had barely remembered putting on Harry's sweatshirt to wear to bed the night before, but when you woke up that morning—fully sober—you couldn't bring yourself to take it off. It was warm and still faintly smelled of him. You figured that your lapse in judgement the night before came from the fact that he rejected you, a fact that you tried extremely hard not to read into. Then again, how could you not? He had never rejected you before, not once. In fact, his need for you, his want for you, was the one constant thing about him. Desire was the one place you felt as though you had the upper hand and now...you had nothing.

It didn't make sense at all. After all of it the night before: the talking, the flirting, him calling you baby, wanting to be friends, you admitting that you no longer hated him, him taking you home, he let you go upstairs alone. You couldn't figure it out and each time you tried, you felt slightly worse about yourself.

You contemplated taking the sweatshirt off for the fifth time that morning as you dropped your toothbrush in its holder. You decided to keep it on, figuring that if you took it off, it would surely be lost in the pile of clothes covering your floor and then he would never get it back. You needed to keep it close so that you remembered to wash it later that day.

After exiting your bathroom, you pulled the sleeves back down and then rolled them up so you had access to your hands before turning on your speaker where it sat on your nightstand. Before opening up your Spotify, you checked your messages with Harry again, even though you knew there would be no message. You hadn't gotten a single notification since he sent the smiley face in response to you telling him you were safely in your apartment the night before. As you closed the messaging app, you sighed and then hit shuffle on the new LANY album.

You sat down at the tiny dining table that also functioned as your desk (which also served as a divider between your kitchen and the rest of the small studio) and opened your laptop. You knew you could've texted Abby about Harry agreeing to do the interview, or even called her, but considering how angry she seemed the last time you saw her, you decided it was best to give her the news in the most professional way possible. After putting in her email address and cc-ing the appropriate people, you wrote: Harry Styles has agreed to be interviewed by me. Some bits from the interview have been attached. His team will be in contact sometime this week. After attaching the word doc you had spent the morning preparing, you quickly hit send and sat back in the old chair.

It took Abby less than five minutes to respond in the form of a text. She wanted to know when to expect contact from Harry's management and whether or not you spoke to him about a possible cover. The second text informed you that they wanted him featured in, or on the cover of, the January issue, meaning that everything would have to get done rather quickly. Apparently, they had already figured out who would be styling him and taking the photos—if he agreed to do it.

You deflated a little in your chair and rubbed at your eyes before picking up your phone to answer. You loved your job, you really did, but it was Sunday and you were tired of thinking about Harry. You needed a break.

He had been on your mind all day yesterday, and most of the day before that, and when you woke up that morning—you just needed a few hours, maybe even a day, where he didn't exist to you. You wanted it to be like it was when you hated him because then you never had to think about him at all. There were no confusing and conflicting feelings, there was no curiosity about what he was doing, there was no checking your phone like a pathetic idiot who hoped she had missed a text. It was ridiculous behavior—especially since you barely liked him. Maybe this was the friend thing that Harry was talking about. Maybe you did want to be friends.