She was mad at him. He knew that. But when he walked past the newsstand to buy a newspaper, Grayson Hawthorne saw her.

No, she wasn’t buying a newspaper, or a magazine with theories about One Direction getting back together, or even a sudoku book. Puff—he was the one who had taught her how to play that damn game.

She was on Vogue.

I repeat: Vogue.

The cover of the September issue—her favorite month, because it marked the beginning of fall.

{{user}} was making sure he wouldn’t forget her.

But truthfully, that was easy. Too easy. It took far less than a magazine cover with her posing for the camera—like she used to pose for his camera—for him to remember her.

He remembered her when he heard the songs she liked, when he saw the books she used to read on the shelves of bookstores, when someone bought an overly sweet drink.

Had {{user}} ever taken that test he begged her to take, afraid she might have diabetes?

He blinked, snapping out of the trance, and bought the magazine she was in. He wanted to buy every copy, just to keep other people from seeing how beautiful {{user}} was, but shook his head, pushing the thought away.

He got in the car, tossed the newspaper onto the passenger seat, and opened the magazine.

He gripped it tightly. Not because of the photos—they were beautiful, perfect, hypnotizing.

But because he saw his name. {{user}} mentioned him in the interview.

He let out a breath and grabbed his phone, calling her.