I've never been the type to read the gossip section—celebrity fluff just isn't my thing—but when his name is plastered across headlines like it owns the page, it's impossible not to stop and read.

Harry Styles Moving to a Different Direction

Of course.

Despite the clichéd title, I devour the article in a single breath.

Harry Styles cast in new Christopher Nolan film, Dunkirk.
A soldier.

My heart swells with pride. Of course he got it. Of course he did.

He's magnetic. That kind of presence can't be taught. It isn't practiced or learned—it's instinct. Natural charisma. Niall has it too, in a gentler way. But Harry... Harry has gravity. He pulls people in.

Let's not forget his acting skills. I mean, for a moment there, he really had me convinced he cared.

He'll be brilliant. I don't doubt that for a second.

About a month later, over lunch with Liz and Niall, I try not to ask. I try to keep the conversation on safe ground, but eventually I give in—just a casual, offhand question, an "Oh, how's Harry doing?" kind of thing. An inquiry about an acquaintance. That's all it is. That's all it has to be.

"He's beat, Ash," Niall says between bites, and something in my chest sinks without permission.

"Mentally, physically. The film's a lot. He's trying to keep up with the others, and it's all so new. He loves it, don't get me wrong. Working with Nolan is a dream. But yeah... it's tough."

He turns to Liz then, softening. I watch them—how easy it is between them. How natural. They understand each other without trying. Even without the label, they're together. That comfort, that wordless safety—I want that. I miss that.

The days blur into one another. Work piles up. Papers to grade, campaign meetings to prep, Anzette's finals to support. My plate is full, and I'm grateful for it. Productivity keeps the ache at bay.

But when the sun sets and everything quiets down—that's when he returns.

Like clockwork. Like a ghost.

I miss him in a way that terrifies me. Not in the sharp, dramatic sense. But in the slow, persistent ache that wraps around my ribs and squeezes tighter every night.

"Noah Coopers has made an appointment. Half an hour—final assignment," Monet says over her shoulder as we wait for the kettle to boil.

"He is?" I sigh.

"Yeah. What, do we hate him?" she jokes, stirring her tea.

"He's a pain," I mumble. "I can handle him."

Just as I step into my office, I hear the bing of a text.

I close the door and place my mug on a coaster. My phone lights up on the desk, and everything else fades.

Harry: How are you? I hope you're well.

My breath catches. My pulse spikes. I haven't even read it twice and already I feel like I might cry or faint—or both. How does he still do this to me? A single line of text. That's all it takes.

My fingers hover over the screen for far too long.

What do I even say?

Something clever? Casual? Honest?

I type:

I'm fine, thank you. How about you? Niall said it's been tough.

What I want to say:

Where the hell have you been?
Was I that easy to forget?
Why did you leave like that? Without a word?
Are you okay?

But I don't. I can't. Not after what I did. I left him first. I walked away when he was asking me to stay. I have no right to ask now. No right at all.

He replies.

Yeah. Tough. Tough and lonely.

I read it once.
Twice.
Three times.

He doesn't need to say more. I can feel the heaviness through the screen. But then the questions start spinning again.

Why now?
Why tell me this?

Is he really just lonely? Reaching out to the first warm hand he remembers?

I type back:

Know the feeling. You'll be fine. It's just a phase. I need to go. I have class. Take care.

I stare at the message after I send it. It's cold. Distant. Nothing like what I wanted to say.

But it's all I could give.

Because I don't know what this is anymore.
Or what he wants from me.
Or what I want from him.

All I know is this:

I miss him. Terribly.

I don't know why I lied—but I know I had to.

I meant it when I said I knew the feeling. Because I do. Every single day is tough. And lonely. Has been for the last five years—except for the few days I spent with him. Answering that text shouldn't have felt like digging out my own heart, but it did. Instead of offering him something—anything—I shut the window, locked it, and drew the curtains too.

What would a real friend have done? What would a therapist have done?

But I'm not his friend. I'm not his therapist.

What am I?

An ex-lover. An ex-professor. A mistake?

A knock at the door interrupts the spiral, jolting me back into the now. I realize I've spent thirty full minutes in my own head—again. Harry used to visit only in the evenings. Now he's back in the daylight, taking up space I can't afford to give.

"Come in," I call, and the door opens.

Of course. Right on time.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Coopers," I say, sitting up straighter. "Have a seat. What can I do for you?"

He sits, crosses his legs like he owns the place. "It's about the assignment. The one due on the 20th."

"Yes?"

"I won't be able to meet the deadline."

Just like that. No apology, no explanation. Just casual defiance.

"We still have ten days," I say, brows furrowing. "Where are you having trouble? If you're facing personal issues, we can speak with the dean—"

"No need for that. Unless you want to," he cuts in, smirking. That smirk—God, it makes my skin crawl.

"I'm not sure I follow," I say slowly. "But I do need to remind you that submitting late will result in an automatic ten percent deduction."

"I need to maintain my GPA," he says, adjusting his expensive coat, bored.

"Then I suggest you finish on time, like the rest of the class."

"I'm sure you can manage something," he leans back, grinning. "It wouldn't be the first time... right, Ashley?"

My stomach drops.

"I'm not sure what you're implying, Mr. Coopers," I say, carefully. "But if this is meant to be a joke, I'm not laughing."

"Oh, come on," he leans forward now, toying with a pen from my desk. "Drop the act. I may not be a pop star, but I'm pretty talented where it counts."

His wink makes bile rise in my throat.

"I think it's time you left," I say firmly.

"I have a video," he says calmly, too calmly. "From the night you were celebrating with your class. You know, the pub."

I freeze.

"What video?"

"Of your sweetheart asking for your address. Of him talking to that blonde friend of yours. Saying things that make it very clear what you two were."

I swallow hard.

"I have a video of him coming to your house," he adds, standing now. "And leaving the next morning."

I'm shaking. Not visibly—yet—but my hands are cold and numb.

"As you know, Harry and I worked together. We're friends. And I've treated all my students fairly, including you. I don't know what you think you have—"

"Oh, I know what I have," he cuts in.

"You signed an NDA," I remind him. "And Harry's not my student anymore."

"No, he's not. Thank God for that," he says with a grin. "But my NDA didn't include you, Ashley."

The way he says my name makes my skin crawl. I want to scrub it off.

"Do you even hear yourself?" I manage, voice tight. "What do you want?"

"A small thing," he shrugs, as if we're talking about a parking space. "A little extension. I'll still do the work—just... not on your schedule."

"I can't do that," I say, standing now too. "The system automatically deducts ten percent on late submissions. I have no control over that."

"Find a way," he says flatly. "He flew across an ocean for you. I'm sure you can manage a ten percent tweak."

And then, just like that, he's out the door—leaving behind the stench of control and entitlement.