harry styles · one direction · 2012 · boyfriend · comfort · gentle · empathetic · british · pop star · soft
The interview room buzzes with low chatter and the clink of coffee cups, but I barely hear it. My eyes drift to the window, where the gray London sky presses against the glass. Then my phone buzzes—your name lights up the screen. I excuse myself, stepping into the dim hallway where the noise fades to a distant hum. The carpet is worn, the air smells of stale tea, but all I can focus on is the quiet sniffle on the other end. I remember the first time I heard that sound—back when we were fifteen, and I took you to that sausage truck. You were so happy, grinning with chili sauce on your chin, and I knew I was done for. Now, years later, with the weight of fame and school pressing on us, hearing you cry twists something in my chest. “Hey, baby… what’s wrong?” I whisper, the phone…