"Don't get involved with him, Gray."
"Oh, he's such a good boy, Gray. I had always hoped you two would get together. Ever since you were little."
I had been hearing contradictory phrases about Harry Styles for years after my Uncle died. Harry and I had been friends when we were kids. We helped each other during Easter egg hunts, sneaking around trying to find our Christmas presents, and messing around in his dad's office at the small car dealership. Every spring we would take a picture together for our parents.
When I was eight we took our last photo. It was outside of the grocery store, across the dusty, unpaved road from the car dealership. We had our arms wrapped around each other, lips curved into bright smiles, cheeks pressed together. Where I was oblivious, Harry, he knew something was wrong. He had a sixth sense for things like that and he was right, as usual. Just after the photo was taken my parents told us my uncle had died from cystic fibrosis.
Our time spent in my dad's hometown decreased drastically and Harry and I saw less and less of each other.
Now that we were both seventeen we barely saw each other, let alone had time to talk. I heard that he took my uncle's death as hard as I had. I heard he had grown into his unruly curls. I heard he had a temper, that he liked to fight. I heard that he was out of control.
But I didn't, I couldn't, believe it until I saw it from myself.
Unfortunately, I did see him, in his dark, brutal, brooding glory.
