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Chapter 25

I've never been the type to read the gossip section—celebrity fluff just isn't my thing—but when his name is plastered across headlines like it owns the page, it's impossible not to stop and read.

Harry Styles Moving to a Different Direction

Of course.

Despite the clichéd title, I devour the article in a single breath.

Harry Styles cast in new Christopher Nolan film, Dunkirk.
A soldier.

My heart swells with pride. Of course he got it. Of course he did.

He's magnetic. That kind of presence can't be taught. It isn't practiced or learned—it's instinct. Natural charisma. Niall has it too, in a gentler way. But Harry... Harry has gravity. He pulls people in.

Let's not forget his acting skills. I mean, for a moment there, he really had me convinced he cared.

He'll be brilliant. I don't doubt that for a second.

About a month later, over lunch with Liz and Niall, I try not to ask. I try to keep the conversation on safe ground, but eventually I give in—just a casual, offhand question, an "Oh, how's Harry doing?" kind of thing. An inquiry about an acquaintance. That's all it is. That's all it has to be.

"He's beat, Ash," Niall says between bites, and something in my chest sinks without permission.

"Mentally, physically. The film's a lot. He's trying to keep up with the others, and it's all so new. He loves it, don't get me wrong. Working with Nolan is a dream. But yeah... it's tough."

He turns to Liz then, softening. I watch them—how easy it is between them. How natural. They understand each other without trying. Even without the label, they're together. That comfort, that wordless safety—I want that. I miss that.

The days blur into one another. Work piles up. Papers to grade, campaign meetings to prep, Anzette's finals to support. My plate is full, and I'm grateful for it. Productivity keeps the ache at bay.

But when the sun sets and everything quiets down—that's when he returns.

Like clockwork. Like a ghost.

I miss him in a way that terrifies me. Not in the sharp, dramatic sense. But in the slow, persistent ache that wraps around my ribs and squeezes tighter every night.

"Noah Coopers has made an appointment. Half an hour—final assignment," Monet says over her shoulder as we wait for the kettle to boil.

"He is?" I sigh.

"Yeah. What, do we hate him?" she jokes, stirring her tea.

"He's a pain," I mumble. "I can handle him."

Just as I step into my office, I hear the bing of a text.

I close the door and place my mug on a coaster. My phone lights up on the desk, and everything else fades.

Harry: How are you? I hope you're well.

My breath catches. My pulse spikes. I haven't even read it twice and already I feel like I might cry or faint—or both. How does he still do this to me? A single line of text. That's all it takes.

My fingers hover over the screen for far too long.

What do I even say?

Something clever? Casual? Honest?

I type:

I'm fine, thank you. How about you? Niall said it's been tough.

What I want to say: