Calling Liz feels almost impossible. My hands are shaking, and my stomach is a knot of nerves. I've been wanting to dial her since I realized Harry was gone, but I couldn't bear the idea of dragging her into my mess this early.

Still, when the clock finally ticks past ten, I cave.

She picks up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"He... he left, Liz," I whisper, my throat tightening, tears already welling.

"Who left? Anzee?" she asks, instantly alarmed.

"No. Harry." My voice cracks. "He left this morning. Didn't say goodbye. His phone's off."

I hear shuffling and what I assume is the rustle of covers. Then her voice again, clearer now.

"No, go back to sleep, baby, I'll take this in the living room," she says—to Niall, probably—and I feel an immediate pang of envy. That calm, cozy intimacy they share... Why can't I have that?

Because of me. That's why.

"Wait a minute, Ash. Stay on the line," she says gently, moving to another room. I start pacing, phone pressed tightly to my ear, doing breathing techniques like I teach my students. In for four, out for four. I feel ridiculous, like a teenager panicking after a sleepover. But this—he—wasn't supposed to vanish.

"Sweetheart," she says at last, her tone calm and steady, "let me get this straight."

"Harry asked me for your address last night. Said he wanted to apologise for his mum's behaviour. He looked pretty upset. I felt sorry for him. Please tell me I didn't make a mistake by giving it to him..."

"Liz... I'm listening," I whisper.

"Did he come over?"

"Yes."

"Did you talk? Did he apologise?"

"Yes."

"Did anything else happen?"

"Yes."

"Sweetie, you're going to have to give me more than one-word answers if you want help. What happened?" Her voice is soft, cautious now.

I take a breath. "We talked... and we... we slept together."

There's a pause.

"Okay..." she says carefully. "And he left? Did you two argue?"

"No. We didn't fight."

"Was the sex... bad?"

"Liiiiz," I groan.

"What? I'd walk if the sex was bad," she replies matter-of-factly.

"It was... wonderful," I whisper. A tear finally spills over. "He was kind, and sweet, and I thought we were finally—"

"Okay. What did he say when he left?"

"He didn't. He left while I was sleeping."

"How many times have you called him?"

"Twice."

"Shit, Ashley!"

"What did I do?!"

"He might've just gone home. His mother is in town—he left her last night to come see you. He probably didn't want to bump into Anzette in the morning. Maybe his phone's dead. Maybe he passed out. You've got to give the guy a chance!"

"You think so?"

"It's ten in the morning. You're spiralling and the poor boy's probably asleep or explaining to his mom why he vanished into the night."

"I just—" My voice falters. "I don't want to mess this up, Liz."

"Then don't," she says, gently. "Let him show you who he is. And sweetie? If the night was good for you, I guarantee he's not ghosting you. He's exhausted. Wait until the afternoon. Try again then."

"Yeah. You're right." I sniffle, wiping my eyes. "I'm overreacting."

"Ash," she says firmly, "stop overthinking. I'll call you later."

We hang up, and I sit there staring at my phone.

Maybe his battery died. Maybe he didn't want to risk an awkward morning run-in with Anzette. Maybe... he panicked. Maybe he's tired, or just giving me space.

His words echo in my mind.

"This isn't a game."

"You can't imagine how long I've waited to hear you say this."

He wouldn't lie. He's not that guy. He was there. He was all in.

Feeling a little steadier, I decide to reach out—not because I expect an immediate reply, but because I need him to know. I need him to know I'm not regretting it. That I meant everything I said.

Good morning. Just wanted to say that last night was wonderful, and that I already miss you. Hope you have a great day with your mom. Text me when you get the chance. 💬

I hit send before I can second-guess myself. A teenager in love—yes, maybe. But I don't care. He should know what last night meant to me. The marks I left on his skin may speak volumes, but I still want to say it.

I set the phone down and my eyes drift to the photo on the shelf.

Me and Jason.

He's kissing my cheek while I pull a silly face in a bikini. We were happy then. Alive. We had everything.

I take the frame in my hands and speak to him, quiet but honest.

"He's a good one, J," I whisper, brushing the glass.

"You'd like him. He's younger, yeah. But only in years."

I smile through the tears that threaten again.

"He's... he's a good one."

He didn't call.
In fact, he hadn't even answered my text.

It was painful to sit with, to stew in the silence, to refresh my inbox like a fool hoping for something, anything. But I suppose I deserved it. I understood it too.

By Monday morning, I had to physically hold myself back from glancing toward the entrance every five seconds like some desperate woman. But I was. Desperate. Hopeful. Pathetic. He didn't come to class.

He didn't come on Thursday either.

By then, the worry had metastasized. I started to fear that what we did—not just what we felt but what we acted on—was going to ruin everything for him. His fresh start. His place here. A stupid night, however perfect it was, was not worth that.

When Liz and I met for lunch on Thursday, I told her to ask Niall to join us.

He was the only one who might know something, who could give me a glimpse behind the curtain. Maybe even pass on a message. Maybe something dumb and maternal, like he should come to class, or I won't make things weird—anything.

"So what I'm trying to say, Niall," I begin, stirring my tea like it's done something to offend me, "is that I won't hold anything against him. I'm not going to be petty or spiteful. I just..."

Niall avoids my gaze, focused too intently on his burger.

"The semester is almost over. He'll be graded fairly—his work's been phenomenal. Then he can go on with his life. I'm not trying to make this harder on him. I won't make it awkward."

"I know he regretted it," I add before I can stop myself, and that's when Niall finally cuts in.

"He doesn't," he says firmly—then hesitates, fumbling with the edge of his napkin. "He doesn't regret it. It's not that."

Something flickers behind his eyes. He wants to tell me more, but he can't. Loyalty tethers him in place.

"You don't have to explain," I say quickly. "If Harry wanted to say something, he would've done it himself. I just don't want him to throw away his work because of... a thing."

"He doesn't think it was just a 'thing'," Niall mutters into his soda, then sighs. "Jesus, I can't say more. But please stop thinking the worst."

"Stop being a dick and tell her," Liz snaps, glaring at him.

"No." I lift a hand. "I don't want him to say anything. If Harry had something to say, he knows where I am. Just because you're in a relationship with Niall doesn't mean we should exploit that."

"You and your goddamn nobility," Liz huffs. Niall coughs awkwardly at the word "relationship," but Liz, naturally, is unfazed.

The next week, he's still not in class.

There's an assignment involved now. And from what Simon told me, Harry hasn't shown up to his lectures either. My worry becomes a knot in my chest I can't undo.

So I do what I should have done days ago. I send Harry the lecture notes and the assignment brief from my university email. I keep it formal. I keep it cold. I hope it's enough.

He doesn't reply. He doesn't submit the assignment.

Rebecca ends up needing to be reassigned. The workload is too much for her alone. I pair her with Coopers and Brown, hoping her diligence might rub off. She doesn't complain. She's mature, gracious, everything I should be. I wonder if Harry has contacted her, and the not-knowing nearly eats me alive—but I don't ask. I have no right.

Niall's away for a while, recording, so Elizabeth has more time for me. She insists we go out more, "rediscover the new Ashley," as she calls it. I laugh, but I don't go. I'm not ready. Not for newness. Not for anyone else. Harry wasn't "new"—Harry was different.

She mentions Leo again, says he's coming to London soon.

"What will you do when he asks you out this time?" she says with a grin.

"I'll say yes," I reply. "To dinner. As friends. Like always."

Leo's charming, brilliant with sustainability, and terrible with commitment. A man with a new woman every time I check Instagram. Lovely friend. Horrible boyfriend. Not my problem.

"What about Simon?" she says with that mischievous arch of her brow.

"What about him?"

"Would you consider dating him?"

"Elizabeth," I sigh. "This isn't a game show. You can't just line up bachelors."

"I just want you to be happy," she says innocently. "Now that you've had a little... adventure. You're back in the game."

"Elizabeth!"

"I'm just saying... Simon seems well endowed."

"Elizabeth!"

"I said seems. I didn't do an inspection," she cackles, and I nearly spit out my drink.

I try to keep walking through my days like nothing's changed, but the truth is—I miss him. Terribly. My mom and Anzette notice, but I cover it up with half-hearted smiles and fake energy. At work, I wear professionalism like armour. But inside... I ache.

This isn't a game.

You can't imagine how long I've waited to hear you say this.

His words, once my sanctuary, have become a curse. I should've known better than to believe them. Or maybe I didn't want to know better. Maybe I wanted to fall.

I walk into our department meeting with a tired smile, trying not to anticipate anything, when the head of department speaks.

"So, our celebrity has called it quits."

It feels like the world freezes.

I freeze with it.

"I can't say I didn't expect it," he continues. "All that pressure. He left a generous donation, though. That'll make the admin happy. It's the least he could do for all the paparazzi nonsense we had to deal with."

A ripple of murmurs. I sit, motionless.

"If you were teaching Harry Styles, you should already have an email about his withdrawal."

That's all.

Just a name. Just a sentence. Just like that.

He's gone.

Gone.

No goodbye. No message. Not even a note.

I sit there, surrounded by papers and colleagues and coffee cups and shallow laughter, and I wonder how something so quiet can hurt this much.

I miss him.

Terribly.