Harry Styles.

Sign of the Times

Harry folded the letter and slid it inside his coat pocket. He'd done this twice before, rereading its contents as if each time would progressively reassure him.

During the registration process, he never thought he'd be chosen. He thought he'd be safe from the bullets.

He stood from a table in your favorite diner, removing his fedora and greeting you with a slight bow. Your short curls bobbed beside your ruby smile. You weren't sure why Harry asked you to meet him for lunch, but his serious expression made you uneasy. Concern etched itself in crinkles on your forehead.

"My love," he said, taking your hand and kissing its backside. He admired the daisies pinned in your hair; he picked them for you that morning and left them on your dresser with a note to meet him at noon.

"And mine," you replied. He walked behind your chair and pushed it in while you sat. You smoothed your dress before removing your white silk gloves. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"A beauty that pales when compared to yours."

You simpered. "Three years married and you still manage to make me blush like a schoolgirl."

Harry's soft lips stretched into a dimpled smile, one that failed to reach his eyes. He thrummed three fingers on the table. The vibration traveled through your elbows, reverberating deep in your core.

"Is everything alright?"

Your husband reached inside his coat and retrieved his destiny. He slid it before you, green eyes beckoning. You concentrated on the parchment and the ink within. Harry watched your face soften, every ridged edge disappearing. Water swelled in your eyes as they scanned left to right. Something thick and menacing lodged in your throat. Everything around you slowed down while your heart and mind accelerated.

"When do you deploy?" you said, unable to make eye contact.

"First thing tomorrow morning."

"I think I'm gonna be sick." You stood abruptly and rushed outside, heels clanking loud enough to gather people's attention. Breathing turned to suffocation, and the smoggy air didn't help. You clutched your chest. Harry appeared beside you, extending his handkerchief. You collapsed into him. Your sobs echoed through the city, inviting replies from crows inflight.

"Stop your crying, baby."

"They can't do this. They can't just steal you away and send you off to war."

"That's how things work right now—just a sign of the times. And they may be hard times, but they're our reality, and we have to deal with that," Harry said, unsure if he was trying to convince you or himself.

"I can't let you go."

"You have to." Harry cradled you through each convulsion. "It'll be alright."

"What if it won't be?"

Harry lifted your face and swiped his thumbs across each roseate cheek. "Have I ever told you how lucky I am to have you?"