I haven’t written a song in over a year.

Not because I couldn’t. Not because the words weren’t there. But because every line came out sounding like her. Like regret dressed up in lipstick and stolen time. Like the kind of love you can’t sing about without burning everything down.

She walked into my life back in June. A fan. Eighteen. Eyes too wide, heart too open. I should’ve walked away that night. Should’ve smiled, said thanks, and left her with a memory.

But I didn’t.

And now here we are—four months later, holed up in a Florida hotel room, the sound of silence between us louder than any stadium I’ve ever played.

They’re getting closer. The internet’s in flames with grainy photos of my arm wrapped around a girl half my size. Headlines screaming “Harry Styles’ Mystery Woman: Who Is She?” And all I can think is: it’s only a matter of time before they put it all together.

And when they do? I’ll be the villain.

But here’s the thing—I don’t want her because she’s young. In fact, I hate that she’s young. I hate the way it makes everything feel wrong, even when it feels more right than anything else I’ve ever known. If she were just five years older, maybe I wouldn’t be this scared. Maybe I’d take her hand in daylight. Maybe I’d stop watching the door every time I kiss her.

She’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, knees tucked to her chest, pretending not to see the way my hands are shaking.

We’ve been fighting more lately. About hiding. About the future. About whether this love—messy, reckless, beautiful—is worth what it’s going to cost us.

I run a hand through my hair, pacing the length of the room like it might help me think clearer.

“I don’t know how much longer we can do this,” I say quietly, finally breaking the silence.

Her head snaps up. Those eyes—damn those eyes—already glistening.

“I’m not saying I want to lose you,” I add, voice hoarse. “But we need to talk. For real this time. Before the world finds you… and takes you from me.”