Shakespeare | Harry Styles

Part II

Classes have only been in session for two weeks when you have your first paper due.

Your fingers are rubbing at a pair of tired eyes while you yawn in protest. Leave it to you to put off your assignment until the last moment. Now, it's midnight and all you have left to do is read through and edit, but your mind keeps wandering to thoughts of fluffy pillows and cozy blankets and the squeaky mattress awaiting you in your dorm room.

The library is silent, lights blindingly bright in an effort to keep occupants awake. You're seated next to a window that looks over the entire campus, all the glowing lampposts and vacant sidewalks and ivy-coated brick buildings. The view is spectacular, and it hasn't helped you stay focused for the past eight hours.

You lean back in your seat with a heavy sigh, clasping your fingers over your eyes. When you open them again, a girl at the next table is glaring at you over the screen of her laptop. You're on the second floor—the silent floor—and apparently loud breathing is not allowed.

You press against the edge of your table, sliding your chair out enough for you to stand. The library closes at one. You know for a fact that once you get back to your dorm, there will be no way to keep yourself out of bed. If you're going to make this paper acceptable, it needs to be soon, and you're going to need some caffeine.

Your feet carry you through the every silence of bookshelves. You fish through each of your pockets in search of your card as you pad down the stairs to the first floor. There are only a few remaining students, most of them pouring over what you can only assume to be mountains of science homework.

The cafe by the main entrance is even more deserted than the library is. There are only two workers, one leaned against a counter with his eyes closed, red apron caked in flour and dough from earlier in the day. The other sits in a chair by the cash register, picking at her cracked cuticles. She glances up at you briefly as you approach the coffee canisters and then directs her attention back toward her hands.

You're mixing milk into your coffee when you see him, nestled into the far corner of a booth. He looks almost as exhausted as you feel, glasses hanging on the end of his nose, cheek presses against the window on his right. He has an old notebook laid out before him, scraps of paper littered across the tabletop. His wrist slips smoothly over the page of his book and his pen wiggles rapidly in his grip. He looks concentrated, determined, and you almost feel guilty for wanting to interrupt him.

"Just the coffee?" the cashier asks, pushing herself lazily from her chair as you place your cup next to the register.

"And one of these."

You place an unfamiliar, wrapped-up pastry beside your drink, snapping the lid onto the cup. The cashier swipes your card and doesn't say another word as she plops back down in her seat.

Your eyes find Harry again, the only other soul in the cafe. He's placed himself strategically beneath a hanging light that creates and eerie glow around him. Despite not having spoken to him since that first day, you slip between tables until you're beside him, glancing down at rumpled papers lined with a neat scrawl.

"You have nice handwriting," you comment quietly.

"Christ!"

Harry sits up quickly, glancing at you with alarmed eyes. Even his fast movements seem delayed and it takes him a moment to register your face. Then his hands are scrambling over the table, bunching papers together and cramming them into the fold of his brown, leather-bound notebook, which he promptly slams shut. You take a step back, considering just walking away until the cup in your hand threatens to scald your palm.

"Didn't mean to scare you," you apologize, nearly slamming your coffee down beside him. You shake your hand out a bit, grasping at the cool air for relief from the heat.