the romcom diaries [HARRY STYLES]

Men

My mum always said the most confusing things in the world were, the appeal women had for Russel Brand, and men.

They say one thing but they mean the opposite, they act one way when they're dying to act another.

Take a crush for example— why, in all the world, was it normalised for a young boy to be nasty to the girl he fancies. That was something I never understood in Primary school. Regardless, it never applied to me. They were all just nasty for the pitiful fun of it.

I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose and pouted.

I had no motivation to write anything, despite my publisher demanding a new chapter of the book.

My poetry book had been scrapped, and the pool of memories flooded my mind. 

"I'm sorry, Miss Caddel, but poetry doesn't have an appeal anymore." The man sat in front of me said. I feared for his buttoned shirt. He'd clearly sized down, the buttons were almost vibrating with the need to break free, "You must understand, it unfortunately isn't on our agenda,"

I shifted, uncomfortably, "I've been working on that book for weeks,"

It sounded like a plea.

"I recall..." He coughed, leaned forward and began shuffling through a stack of papers. He found the one he was searching for and looked over his glasses, "You have an old project. One that was rejected six months ago,"

"Yes," I nodded with a frown, "A sequel. But sir-"

He flicked the paper at me and I caught it, shakily, "It's perfect for your image. No one's going to read a poetry book from a washed up romance novelist. Work on your career, then release whatever book you desire,"

I huffed at the memory of yesterday's conversation. He was overly rude.

I'd not thought about my sequel for six months. To open it back up and start typing was nearly impossible, so I found myself spelling words I found aesthetically pleasing, rather than getting anything done.

And then Harry flickered through my thoughts. I could see his smug smile, skinny jeans and long, silk hair. It was getting aggravating and I was being stupid. Every sentence I concocted about the male lead seemed to radiate Harry's energy— despite doing it unconsciously.

I felt my phone vibrate and scooped it out of my linen bottoms, revealing the caller. It was my dad. I couldn't dodge another one of his many calls, so I answered.

"Hello, poppet," Dad beamed, "How're you doing?"

Shitty. Thanks for asking.

"I'm doing good. Just working on another chapter," I replied.

"I hope you're not working yourself too hard. Genevieve," He said, sternly, "You'll burn up,"

"I'm not," I lied.

"I'm ringing about James' birthday. You'll be there, I presume,"

I cleared my throat, "Yeah, yes. I was planning on it,"

"Your grandpa said he's invited a friend of yours," Dad said and then I heard a shuffle, "What was his name, Dear?" He wasn't talking to me— he only called my mum dear.