Love, She Writes [Harry Styles]

Love, She Writes  

I'm excited. More than I should be. This took forever, but it's finally here :D I'm finally able to say I've uploaded a fanfic! P.S. If there's any talented readers reading this, PLEASE message me if you're willing to make a cover for this? Thank you! xx    

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When they meet, it's December and it's cold and snowy and really, all Allison Marcs wants is her bed and her cat Ellie.   

But she can't go home, because she's stuck helping her mother at their clothing store and nobody is coming in because every other normal person thinks it's much too cold to go out today. And there's not much helping to do due to her mother's severe case of OCD that she seems to aquire as soon as she walks onto store grounds, so all the thirteen-year-old does is stare out the window and wish her best friends were here to make everything funnier and cooler and exciting. But they're all sensible girls, and their parents don't go out to their shops and try to reel in customers when there is little to no customers to even reel in, and furthermore, they don't drag their children along with them.  

Allison feels nothing more than boredom and frustration, and she can't really wrap her head around why her overly polite mother is so cheery, because there is no one to buy anything and make her money, so why should she waste her time stacking and refolding and organizing clothes when no one is there to admire it? Allison had promised to herself from an early age that she would never take hold of the drabby shop, even though her mother so oftenly used the  'one day you will own it, too' sentence. She didn't care if her mother was so keen on making her own it and begin a family business. She wanted nothing to do with the coffee-smelling, tan-color painted clothing store. It was boring, it was drabby, and why should she be forced into it?  

All she's doing now is pressing her nose onto the window, making doodles on the frosted glass with the pad of her index finger, humming a song she heard somewhere but couldn't really recall where, and every other minute she rolls her eyes as her mother exclaims to no one in particular, "Oh, that's just great! Simply brilliant!"  

"What is?" Allison asked in a dull tone, not that she really cared.  

"I was being sarcastic, Allison." Mrs. Marcs states instead of answering, and Allison doesn't really bother to point that out because suddenly her attention is caught on a tall, raven-haired woman and what Allison presumed was her son. They were both bundled up in scarves and beanies and heavy coats, because it was arguably Manchester's coldest winter yet. The boy looks bored but Allison can't really tell because his face his nearly hidden by his scarf and the mother looks plain expaserated. Allison quirks an eyebrow when she realizes that the mother is heading towards their store.  

"Mum, customers." Allison calls out, turning around swiftly so that she's not staring out the window like a freak because that would surely scare them off, and really, Allison doesn't want them to go. She pretends to be absorbed in a magazine that she's probably read over a billion times, and soon she hears the bell that signals a customer has entered.  

"Why hello!" a shrill voice erupts, and Allison grows red in embarrassment because she just knows that's her mother speaking. "Need any help?"  

"Actually, I do! I'm looking for a dress. I'm a bridesmaid for my friend's wedding."  

This voice is much more calm and lower pitched, and Allison steals a peek up from her magazine up at the lady. She's young-looking, but Allison knows she's probably older than she looks, because her own mum is nearly fourty-two and still looks like she's teetering on the age of thirty. She swipes a glance at the son next. She can't really see his face because he's facing the other direction, but she can see chocolate brown waves, almost curly but not exactly, peeking out from under the black beanie he's wearing.