Liam: “So?” You asked nervously biting the inside of your cheek and looking up at Liam’s mom who stood at the doorway with your bouquet of flowers. It was close to 7:15 and there was still no sign of him anywhere. She shamefully shook her head and left, going around just to make sure that he was here, and had not done what was running on both your minds. He wouldn’t do that. You knew he would never leave you at the altar like that so why was he not here? He wasn’t that kind of guy. He asked you so he must have been ready for this day. Or if everything was a nightmare and the thought that was haunting your head was real, why would he not come talk to you about it before the big day? 7:12, the clock hit and still no call, text, any sign that he was waiting for you to walk down the aisle. Even his best man, Louis, was unable to reach him. 7:15 and it was clear that he left you, with no explanation at all.
Zayn: He came in every Tuesday evening at 7:15 to order his usual; a caramel macchiato with extra syrup and less milk foam. His hair was still a bit disheveled letting you know that he had just woken up about ten minutes ago or he had not bothered to tidy himself to which both you didn’t mind at all. This stranger you had just met had captivated you in the most dramatic way possible since you always shut yourself from everyone, even your closest friends. The light stubble forming on his chin and cheeks, his pools of dark chocolate brown eyes, and the tone of his tanned skin made him more sophisticated than any piece of art at any prestigious museum. “Working hard or hardly working?” He’d ask the same thing, walking to your table with his coffee cup in his hand. “Good evening to you, too.” You would peer up from over your sketchbook as he let his own drop, smacking the table before he settled into the seat across from you. And that’s how you spent the rest of a Tuesday evening, talking about his new tattoo sketches, his day at work and your subtle admiration for him.
Niall: As a college student, 10pm was like 4 pm and 1am was like 9pm. But 7:15am was definitely still 7:15am. So it was very strange and surprising to see him, being the frat and party boy he is, sitting in your usual seat in the front of the class half an hour before class officially started. And even though there wasn’t assigned seating in college, it was your seat and everyone knew that. Deciding to brush it off, you sat in the vacant desk next to him. His blonde quiff wasn’t styled like it normally was. Instead, it was just flat but still incredibly tempting to run your fingers through. The bags under his eyes were impossible to ignore when he looked up from his textbook to greet you silently. “Long night?” You asked, hiding the grin and blush burning your cheeks. He rolled his eyes with no reply, a grin of his own making its way, recalling how a tutoring session had turn to some much more than just studying biology. “Great night actually. I happen to have a very incredible tutor. Best part? Hands-on tutoring,” he finally spoke up.
Harry: 6:15. 6:30. 7:00. And finally the time hit 7:15 in the morning. It was also the last alarm clock on your phone meaning that you were late. But the bed was comfy, blankets were warm and his tight grip holding you by the waist made it impossible for you to move remotely. The morning light was already shining in through the cracks of the blinds, hitting you perfect in the face. You picked up your phone to look at the time once again but you were bothered by a streak of unreplied texts and missed calls from your coworkers. “Harry,” you nudged his arm, covered with a variety of small and big tattoos. “Mmh?” He replied, more than half asleep. “I have to go to work,” you reminded him. But he wouldn’t move, not even budge. So you took the silence as a ‘you’re not getting out of here anytime soon’ and went back to cuddling him instead.
Louis: He came in every single morning at 7:15am sharp; cheeks flushed a rosy pink from the winter breeze of a December day. “The usual,” he would order his beverage with the same barista everyday. As soon as they saw him come in, they had already started preparing his drink; all he needed to do was pay for it. He would make his way to the same table, next to the same window, under the same light, way across the coffee shop from where you sat with your laptop open allowing you to sneak in a few glances over. He would sit facing you, waiting for the small dainty girl to deliver his hot cup of tea, but his eyes always stayed focused on the newspaper or magazine in front of him, sometimes his phone. “Miss, this is for you,” the employee came around your table to place a freshly brewed cup of coffee. “But I didn’t order anything,” you replied confused. “I know. It’s from the lad over there,” she stated pointing towards him. This time, his eyes on you and a small smile pressed nicely against his lips.
