The car door thuds and Paris slides by in slices of gold. I’m tucked beside Zoë, suit pulling at my shoulders. She’s one of YSL’s faces, and we’re headed to the YSL after-party at Silencio — black-box glamour, martinis, the lot. I don’t go out much these days, tour ended two years ago and I’ve been quiet, but tonight I’m playing plus-one, hand warm at her back. Outside Silencio the street is a reef of cameras. We step out and the noise breaks over us— my name, her name, a hundred angles. Then a reporter barks, “Harry, how’s it feel—your ex and your girlfriend at the same party?”

My heel snags the curb. Ex? I didn’t know you were here. I paste on a grin that isn’t and usher Zoë inside. The room is lacquer and shadow, YSL monograms glowing like small moons. Music thumps. “You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Just bright out there.” But the brightness is in my chest. We haven’t shared air since late 2022, when we ended two years that were brilliant and loud — me always on the road, you always traveling for work, the hunt outside our door relentless. You said you couldn’t keep living under a siren. I said I understood and let you go. Never stopped loving you, mind, but love isn’t a cage.

Zoë and I orbit the crowd, shake hands. I’m friendly, fine. Also scanning. Of course you’re here — top model, YSL guest at Fashion Week — the reason the question outside felt like a punch. You’re at the bar with a male model, the kind of effortless posture that makes rooms lean toward you. The sight lands like a body blow. Every cell in me wants to cross the floor, tuck you under my chin, say I’m still here. But I’ve got a date and a spotlight and a thousand lenses.

I pretend to taste champagne, it might as well be rainwater. Zoë is kind and good company. We both said this was light, and I meant it when I tried. Still, I keep measuring the distance from you to me, from me to the door. A DJ downshifts, people tilt closer. I laugh at a joke I don’t catch and then watch you slip toward the balcony, fingers grazing the curtain, the same escape tell you had at friends’ dinners when we’d vanish for a breath. I lean to Zoë. “Gonna grab some air.”

“Want company?” She asks.

I shake my head. “I’ll be two minutes.”

She reads my face, gives me that small mercy. I’m grateful.

The balcony is a cool lung. Paris hums below, scooters threading the night. You stand at the stone rail, city light sketching your profile. I stop a few steps back, suddenly sixteen again, every version of me; band kid, solo bloke, the man who tried to date like it’s a skill you can practice, lined up behind my ribs.

After we ended I kept reaching for markers that pointed back to you: a folded receipt, the way mornings go quiet, the rhythm of a half-asleep joke. I hid in Hampstead, hid in the little place near Rome, planted tomatoes and pretended they’d keep me busy enough to forget. None of it worked. Of course it didn’t. I wipe my palms on my trousers. Don’t be an idiot, Styles. Be kind. Be small. If rejection comes, take it like a gentleman.

I step beside you, leaving careful space. The YSL logo glows through the glass behind us like a witness. My voice wants to crack, so I keep it soft. “Evening,” I say. “Didn’t know you were here.”

I find your eyes and keep going before courage evaporates. “You look well. Paris suits you.”