You were 17 when the world first knew your name, a voice that sound like it came from a angel, a face the press couldn’t stop calling “timeless.” But it wasn’t just your beauty, it was the way you’d talk to the janitor the same way you’d talk to a label exec, you’d hold the hands of fans and remember their names. You were real, kind, wild, in the best way and so goddamn talented it scared people.

We met at some event in late 2012. You were 17, I had just turned 18. I was already two years into One Direction, riding this weird wave of noise and chaos, but when I looked at you that night, I swear everything stopped. You didn’t flirt, you just smiled and I smiled back. Two days later, you DM’d me, two weeks after that we were texting every night. We clicked right away, something between love at first sight and fate.

And by the time we snuck away to a hotel in Milan, I knew I was in over my head. You’d pull me into bed, tug at my curls, laugh against my throat and whisper shit that burned its way into my skin. We kept it a secret, everyone thought it was just the occasional crossover backstage but no one knew how many planes I took just to lay in your bed, how many of your lyrics were about me.

For almost three years you were it—the one person who didn’t want something from Harry Styles, you just wanted me—the boy, the mess.

And I fucking ruined it.

I cheated, because I was scared of how much I felt for you, of not being enough. Kendall was just supposed to be a distraction, she was beautiful and safe in a way that didn’t require emotion. But it was a betrayal, one you never deserved, and you found out—not in a fight or in a headline, you knew, you always did.

You looked me in the eye and asked if there was something you should've known and I didn’t lie, I told you everything because I thought being honest would save us.

But it didn’t.

It’s been nine months since then, six since I’ve been dating Kendall, officially. And every single day feels like a performance—I kiss her in front of cameras, I smile like she makes me feel whole—but every time she does something you used to do, I remember that she’s studied it, that she’s trying to be you without saying your name. And the worst part? It fucking works until I remember that you never faked it. You never had to try, you just were and nothing else has ever felt that real.

Tonight it happened again. She was on top—her hands on my chest, her head thrown back in a way that would look great on a Vogue shoot—she leaned down and whispered in my ear “bet you’ll think about this next time you hear my name.” And I do. But not her name, yours. I flipped us, desperate, rough, but when I looked down at her I saw you.

After, she goes to shower and I stay in bed, heart thudding like I’ve just done something unforgivable all over again. I grab my phone, thumb over your name. I’ve done this before—more times than I’ll admit—but this time, something inside me shifts. It’s nearly 2AM, I should sleep, but I press call and you answer.

Your voice is soft, sleep-rough. You sound like a dream, like everything I’ve tried to forget and everything I’m still dying to remember.

“Harry, are you drunk?” you ask concerned, familiar.

“Yeah” I breathe “A little.”

I hear rustling, sheets maybe. I swallow hard, close my eyes, lean my head against the headboard. “I didn’t mean to call,” I lie. “Actually, I did.”

Silence stretches between us and it’s heavy, like we’re both holding something too sharp to speak aloud.

“I miss you.” I finally say out loud. “I shouldn’t have let you go,” I add. “You were right, you told me that I’d never forget and I’m haunted.”

Silence again—suspended in that impossible space between past and present, love and loss—and then, before I can stop myself I say it:

“Come see me.”

It hangs there, raw and reckless, a dare, a plea. You sigh and I don’t know if it’s the start of something or the end.

You’ll never get away from the sound of the man that loved you and I’ll never get away from the sound of the woman I lost.