pyrite (harry styles) [completed]

twenty three.

Present Day

Letting Harry sneak back into my life undid the weeks of progress I'd made by the time I got back to Cora's place.

I had a new nighttime routine. I settled onto Cora's couch and watched an episode of Scandal on my laptop every night before I fell asleep. I'd originally picked it because it hardly ever reminded me of Harry; American politics and all. Sometimes I got through a whole episode without wondering what he was doing.

But now, after he made contact, I got cozy on the couch with my Macbook Air and started up my episode, but my phone lit up on her coffee table. This was never part of my new routine.

Considering Cora was pretty much the only person who texted me these days, and she was tucked away in her bedroom with the ability to shout if she needed me, late night text messages just weren't a thing.

So that night, curiosity got the better of me. And his good night text message got the better of me.

And I cried because my entire body and soul genuinely missed him, but I didn't text back.

I needed to draw some boundaries.

That was made more difficult when the next day my entire morning consisted of reporting on Zayn Malik departing his tour, but I managed to ignore his four texts sprinkled through the first four hours of my day.

And then I went to go see a couple prospective apartments on my lunch break later. And they were complete, utter, depressing shit. The apartments an assistant editor's salary allows you to afford in Los Angeles not only leave you to look in the seedier parts of town, but also end up spaces where kitchens are saddled up right next to microscopic, decrepit looking bathrooms.

As someone who owned about six different bottle of perfume - because you never know what you might want to smell like during the day - any place with no counter space would automatically be nixed.

I hadn't thought this would be a terribly difficult parameter to set, but apparently I was asking for way too much in that department.

When you're accustom to sharing a mansion in the hills with a superstar and you realize you are going to be lucky if you can afford to live alone in a 500 square foot studio apartment in the bowels of Hollywood, it's a really, terrible rude awakening.

So much so that I cried again on the way back to work, but this time I had to do it quietly in the back of an Uber - because another thing on my to do list was to figure out how to also afford a car.

And he must have known. Or Cora traitorously gave him a heads up. Because my phone lit up as I smashed tears off of my cheek.

How's apartment hunting going?

It made my breath hitch, because I didn't want to lie anymore. And I responded instantly.

Terrible.

In the next instant he was typing.

Oh no! Can I call you?

The Uber rolled up to my office building and I typed a quick response.

Just got back to work.

Can you tell me why it was terrible?

I thanked the driver and took in a few deep breaths to compose myself before facing my coworkers, and typed a response while waiting for the elevator.

Just harsh seeing what I can afford.

Once I stepped in the elevator he'd already responded, and I wondered if his long, shaggy hair was tucked up in a bun or hanging loose as he typed.