I usually avoid crowds of young women and teenage girls like fire. Don’t get me wrong, I love my fans—they are amazing—but there’s a time and place for everything. Signing, concerts, and meet-and-greets exist exactly for that reason. You give your energy, you receive theirs. It’s an exchange. A rhythm.

But catching eyes at the airport while trying to grab a coffee? Having a group of girls trail behind me down a street, whispering loudly, phones halfway in my face like I wouldn’t notice? That’s not the same. That’s not connection. That’s noise.

And maybe I sound ungrateful saying that. Maybe someone out there thinks I owe constant access. But I’ve learned—if I don’t draw the line, nobody will.

It’s not ego. It’s self-preservation.

Because I can’t give the world the best of me if I never get to keep any of me.

But today I’m walking right into that crowd for the only person I would get shredded to pieces for. You’re graduating university today, and I had to be here. You told me I didn’t have to come so I wouldn’t get mobbed, that we could celebrate after, but that didn’t sit right with me.

We started dating three years ago, and I’ve seen how hard you worked—all those sleepless nights studying, falling asleep on your textbooks in my hotel bed, running on empty stomach and coffee because you had no time for lunch during exam season. Still, you managed to make time for me, even when I didn’t ask. Even when I told you to stay in London and not fly across half the world just because the pressure of this whole fame thing was getting to me.

After all of this, I needed to see them give a diploma to my girl in that little hat. I needed to hear your name called. I needed to be in the room where it happens—not behind a screen, not hearing about it afterward.

I don’t care if I get recognized. I don’t care if I end up in the middle of a whirlwind of screaming fans and shaky phone footage.

Today is yours. And I will walk into fire for you.

As soon as I step in, trailing behind your parents who are doing their best to shield me from the rising sea of glances, I know the whispers have already started.

Even the hat your brother shoved onto my head—some old, nondescript baseball cap with a bent brim—hasn’t done much good. It only made me look more suspicious. I can hear my name spreading around the room.

I can hear it, low at first, like wind rustling through trees. “Is that…?” “No way, that’s him—look at the tattoos.” “Oh my God, it is him.”

I keep my head down, jaw tight, shoulders hunched just enough to say: not today.

Your mum slips her arm through mine, like that alone can keep the crowd at bay. I give her a grateful smile. She’s always treated me like a son, even before we knew what we were. Before I knew what I wanted from you—or how deep I’d already fallen.

We settle into the chairs near the back, right where you asked me to sit—not too close to the front, not too far away. “Low-profile,” you texted this morning, with a winky face and a “don’t cause a scene, rockstar.”

As if I could.

As if I would.

Today’s not about me. It’s about you.

And when your name gets called, I can feel my lips spread into a grin before I even realize I’m smiling. I applaud as loud as I can—louder than anyone around me—not caring if people turn to stare or if someone catches me on video.

Because in that moment, I’m not Harry Styles. I’m just yours. The boyfriend in the back row, heart thudding against his ribs, watching the love of his life walk across that stage like she owns it.

You step forward, head held high, that silly little graduation hat slightly crooked and your gown flaring with every confident stride. You take the diploma with both hands, but your cheeks turn red as soon as you see me blowing you a kiss.

And in that moment, all I can think is— God, I’m proud of you. And I’m proud that I’m yours.

As soon as you’re off that stage, I catch you in my arms, not even giving you a chance to say something to your parents or your brother. “I’m so proud of you, love,” I murmur. “There will be at least one graduate in our family.”