One month later

" Seems that along with Manhunt winner Liam Payne, Harry Styles also signs up with the Florence designers adding some Style to the house of Gucci"

Two months later

"Taking everyone by storm, young Brit Harry Styles becomes the muse of Alessandro Michele, who aims to bring a fresher, more contemporary touch to the House—especially after Frida Giannini's abrupt departure. And we have to admit, things look quite promising with Harry leading the way."

Four months later

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, florals and patterns for men are back, according to the House of Gucci and head designer Alessandro Michele. And by the looks of Harry Styles? They're absolutely killing it!"

"Harry Styles is bringing sexy back, letting the British colours of blue, white, and red take center stage on Milan's catwalks."

Six months later

"Numéro Homme features an exclusive on young heartthrob Harry Styles, the long-haired Brit who has brought sailor tattoos back in fashion."

Eight months later

"Vogue Homme has never looked better than when it featured our very own Harry Styles in its centerfold—a breath of fresh air who left the club scene for a glamorous one."

"New York, Paris, Milan, Rome... the world is his home. Twitter goes into meltdown as Harry Styles, also known as 'Haz' or 'Hazza' in the inner fashion circles, stuns in Gucci at yet another fashion event."

Ten months later

"Street chic is what the new trend the beautiful Hazza is launching and boy is it chic indeed"

***

We can't even miss him," Jimmy mutters, flipping through a magazine as he sips his coffee at The Corner Café. "His face is plastered everywhere. Little fucker."

I smirk despite myself, stirring my drink. The café has become our meeting spot—our safe haven. Everyone here knows us by name, though that probably has more to do with Niall managing the place now. Ever since he and Gemma moved in together, he's officially one of us.

At first, everyone tiptoed around the subject of Harry, as if saying his name might shatter me. And maybe, at the time, it would have. But pretending he didn't exist felt wrong. Harry had been part of our family. Ignoring that fact was unfair—to him and to me.

Even now, a year later, it still stings.

No, I didn't move on. I didn't spend my days crying in my room either, but I couldn't find anyone who made me feel even remotely close to the way Harry did. No one compared.

And no, I hadn't seen him since we said goodbye the day before he left. I didn't go to the airport with the others. It wasn't about playing it cool or being selfish—I just didn't want him to remember me crying, begging him to stay. I wanted him to leave free, with an open mind, unburdened by me.

Yes, I looked into transferring schools to Florence. And before you judge me, it wasn't just about Harry. The courses were genuinely fascinating, but most were in Italian, which was... a problem.

No, Ed and Chrys didn't last. He loved her too much—so much that he lost himself in the process. And Chrys needed someone who challenged her, who had a sense of self, and Ed... well, he just wasn't that person anymore. They remained friends, though, which was a relief for all of us.

Ed moved out of Jimmy's and into John's apartment after Harry left. Living with Jimmy had been fun (at times), but they both needed space. And I'm sure the girls Jimmy brought home appreciated not having their heads hit the hole in the ceiling when they went for a ride.

And yes, I missed him. Terribly.

Every time I saw his face in a magazine, my heart cracked a little more. When I was alone, I would kiss the pictures, whisper to them like he could somehow hear me.

I was proud of everything he accomplished. But with every success, I felt like I was losing him more.

In a way, I coped by finding a new passion—fashion journalism. Because of him. I signed up for courses, telling myself it was for me, but deep down, I knew. It was to feel closer to him.

No, we didn't text. We didn't facetime. We didn't write.

That was our deal.

And while it hurt, I knew it was for the best. Talking but never touching, seeing him but never feeling him—it would have been torture.

Yes, I dreamed of him. Yes, I got off thinking about him, remembering the way he felt inside me, the way his hands traced every inch of my skin. But it wasn't the same.

Yes, guys hit on me at the club. More persistently than before. But I didn't give in. Even when Chase came back, all charming smiles and familiar warmth. He understood, though. Respected it. And that earned him a permanent place in the gang.

The one time Harry came back—for London Fashion Week—I wasn't even here. I was in France for a student exchange program. It was the universe's cruel joke, I suppose.

I don't know if he ever asked about me. No one mentioned it, and I never asked.

I lived my life, and he lived his.

Only difference was—he was living. I was just... existing.

So when I heard whispers about a potential summer internship at Teen Vogue, I jumped at the opportunity.

And when I overheard talk of an exclusive interview with Alessandro Michele in Florence, I did the unthinkable.

I used Harry's name to get the job.

Not because I was dying to write the article. Not because I cared about the career boost.

But because I wanted to see him.

To surprise him.

So I packed my bags, booked a hotel, and boarded a plane to Florence.

My heart raced the entire flight, anticipation coursing through me. I didn't tell my friends. I didn't want anyone to talk me out of it—or worse, warn him. I was only staying three days anyway.

When I finally reached his apartment, my pulse pounded.

I rang the doorbell, rehearsing what I would say, my stomach twisting in nervous excitement.

The door swung open.

And there, standing in nothing but a silky negligee and a warm smile, was Nadine Leopold.

The blood drained from my face.

I barely registered her greeting, barely heard the soft Hey that left her lips.

Because all I could hear was my heartbeat.

And all I could see was my smile—fading.