"Don't make me hate you. Loving you is painful enough," Harry says, angrily shoving his things into his bag to leave, as he always does.

There's a long, uncomfortable silence until he realizes he should probably write that down. For his songs and poems, right?

So he does, taking out that stupid little notepad from his jacket pocket and scribbling in it furiously with that rattly old pen.

He feels ridiculous.