"Cut!" Shane yells again, and I can't help it. A sigh slips out, causing my co-star to turn and snarl at me like a baby tiger on the attack. One whose mother is holding his tail and keeping him from running into actual danger.

"Shut the fuck up, Styles! I thought the line was better the way I said it this time," he growls.

But you're not the screenwriter. I want to be snarky, but I restrain myself, smiling instead and moving to the craft services table. On "Dunkirk", Chris had treated no one like a movie star. We all were treated equally. There were no cell phones allowed on set, and there was no craft services for snacks. A huge part of me wishes that Xavier Alexander Tarrango had that experience for his first movie. Maybe he would be just a little less of a diva.

On the set of the "Golden Angel" I experienced the beauty of star treatment and the glory of a food table. And now on the set of "Press Release," I am glad of the distraction so that I don't have to think about my co-star fucking up this movie.

Snagging a banana, I peel the waxy outer coating off to reveal a perfect specimen. The pulp is free of those strings that sometimes stick to the fruit. And there isn't a single brown spot anywhere. While I'm admiring the incredible artistry of my banana, Xavier stalks past me. Angry again. This kid, mate. He's full of rage. It drips from him, and he doesn't even see it in himself.

It's day two of filming together, and I am relieved that the majority of filming has already taken place separately. He isn't a joy to be around, and we're scheduled to film together for two weeks. At the rate he's blowing through takes and film, though, it's likely to stretch into a month, and I just don't have enough patience saved up for him. He's already pissed off everyone on set, including the director. I don't know how he managed to be on a television show for four seasons without someone killing him.

His cute assistant smiles at me apologetically, and I shrug to indicate that it's not her fault. Meg is a saint. I don't know how she deals with him. I've been on set with him for a little over a day, and I'm ready to beat the snot out of him. But that's not who I am. Or at least not who people think I am.

Hi. I'm Harry. I'm from England. And I'm working on my third movie, an action flick this time. And I have an asshole for a co-star. Don't look at me that way. I know my reputation as a nice guy, and I would never jeopardize that to tell the truth about Xavier to the public. But it's just you and me here, right? So can I reveal the hidden secrets? That's what journaling is for, isn't it?

When we finally get back to filming, Shane (Black, director of such hits as "Kiss Kiss Bang Bang" and "Lethal Weapon") politely asks Xavier to please deliver the line as written, even if he "thinks there might be some more brilliant way to say it". Reluctantly, Xavier agrees, and I breathe another sigh. This time it's one of relief.

"Okay," Xavier whines, "But seriously, dude, my way is so much better. You should just trust me."

Shane rolls his eyes, and I stop myself from doing the same. My co-star is the definition of a prima donna. People called me one during that last year with 1D, but I didn't deserve the label. Just because we traveled separately that last year or so doesn't make me a "prima donna". Xavier, on the other hand, has the title tied up in a neat little bow. As far as I'm concerned, he can have it. It's a lot of work being the focus of everyone's attention.

Back on track with the filming schedule, Xavier delivers his lines as written, and I can see the talent underneath his veneer. The kid has "it": that quality that people talk about when it comes to actors. The "je ne sais quoi" that draws crowds into theaters, sells tickets and merch, and makes a movie a hit. It's a bit frustrating because the asshole part of him overshadows his gift. In fact, twice I get lost in watching him emote in front of the camera, nearly missing my line each time.

"Mate, you're quite talented," I clap him on the back during the next break, excited to share with him that I've seen his skill.

"Well, duh. Jesus F. Christ, Mr. Boy Bander-Turned-Actor," Xavier puts air quotes around the word "actor", setting my teeth on edge. "Did you think they hired me for my sparkling personality?"

He brushes past Meg, jostling her arm, causing her to drop the tray of ice water she's been carrying for his majesty Prince Asshat. She looks like she's going to cry for a moment, and then she squares her shoulders, picking up the ice and tray. Looking around for a broom to help her sweep up the broken glass, I spot one near the sound engineer's booth. When I arrive back at her side, she's already cut herself on a piece of glass.

"Let me help you," I say, grabbing a napkin from the craft table and wrapping it around her finger to stop the bleeding. She nods gratefully, and I start sweeping the glass and ice into a pile. One of the crew members has witnessed the incident, appearing by my side with a dustpan. "Thank you," I reply, sweeping the mess into the pan so it can be disposed of in the trash. Before I can return the broom to its home, the crew member takes it from me, smiling.

"Thank you, Mr. Styles," he practically genuflects to me, and the corners of my mouth turn up.

"Harry," I respond, "Just Harry."

His smile breaks through, and he shakes my hand, "Thank you, Harry. Everyone said to just wait until I met you because I wouldn't believe how nice you are, but after working on location with Mr. Tarrango, I didn't believe them. But you're even kinder than they said. If you ever need anything, ask for Joe. They call me Joe Blow, but that's mostly because people can't ever remember my last name which is Blasioli. So you just ask for Joe Blow. I'm a production assistant, a PA, not to be confused with a personal assistant like Meg there. Poor Meg, by the way, getting stuck with.....Um....never mind," Joe clears his throat, shyly shuffling his feet. "Sorry, Harry. I shouldn't talk about the leads that way."

Shaking his hand, I lean forward just enough to quietly say, "This will stay just between us, Joe. No worries." I want to snort because I would have loved to hear what name Joe has for Xavier. But I refrain. Again.

When I turn back to Meg, she's disappeared. I see her a few minutes later, carrying a new tray of ice cubes and glasses towards Xavier's trailer. She'll probably get yelled at because the wanker bumped into her. Part of me wants to rescue her, but the other part of me decides it's none of my business. This is her job, and she doesn't need me getting in the way or fueling Xavier's anger.

And Joe? Joe is typical. I get people dumping their life stories on me all the time. Truly I shouldn't say it like that. It's not like it's a bad thing for them to share. It's more that sometimes I feel that my sympathetic ear and good-natured demeanor invite oversharing. Then again, I suppose if others are telling me their stories, then that means they aren't asking me intrusive questions. I get enough of those from reporters.

And my mum.

When we finally wrap for the day, I'm exhausted. Xavier spent the afternoon stepping all over my lines, and Shane finally stopped yelling 'cut' and just had them continue rolling the film. He said they would splice together the best bits from different angles and takes rather than trying to get the scene right. It's frustrating to me because I want the fucking scene to be right when we film it, and this little shit is mucking up the works.

I'm a professional, and my reputation as an Oscar-nominated actor is everything to me. Well, that and my reputation as a musician. Okay, I'm rolling my eyes now because what is really most important to me is my reputation as a genuinely nice guy. People will forgive a lot of crap (such as my first album where I was bowling with the bumpers up) if they know you're a nice guy. Talented actors and musicians are a dime a dozen these days, but authentic, thoughtful, and kind celebrities? We're a rare breed.

Around the lot, I can jog whenever I feel like it, and it's more protected than being out in public, so I change into my outfit of leggings, shorts, t-shirt and hoodie with my tennis shoes before I head off on my evening run. It helps me shake off the ugliness of the role that I'm playing in this film. It feels right to challenge myself with a character that is pure evil after the priest I played in 'Golden Angel'. It allows me to stretch in a different way. Everyone expected me to do a rom-com at some point, and I've managed to avoid being trite in my acting by NOT taking the romantic lead. If I can follow in the footsteps of some of the great actors, then I will have longevity in my career, and isn't that most valuable?

My run helps clear my head and put away my feelings about my co-star. It's daunting to me that I've been in the public spotlight nearly half of my life at this point. The other boys kept me down to earth during the early 1D years. And of course Nick has never let me get away with anything in our time as friends. Hell, he's the one who dragged me the most after my first album, claiming he only played it on the station because of our friendship. I knew he was just taking the mickey because he had to play the singles.

This kid, though. Xavier. I can't figure him out, and I wonder if I would have ended up like him without people around me to ground me. People like Nick and my sister and mum. People like James and Ben and Jeffrey.

Maybe I could be his person? Maybe all he needs is someone on his side? Someone to help him see that he's not really the bee's knees? Perhaps I could be that person? As I continue my jog around the lot, I play with the idea.

He'd been a right tosser when I'd shared my admiration of his talent, but perhaps that had just been defensiveness? Maybe if we talk in private, he can see that I want to be his support.

Set on trying this path tomorrow morning, I decide to shower at home, leaving my workout clothes on as I quickly pack up the clothing I'd arrived in this morning. Tossing the bundle into my Range Rover, I glance over at Xavier's trailer. Meg is sitting on the steps, her head in her hands. I can't tell if she's crying or laughing or exasperated.

Debating, I finally decide that if I'm going to uphold my reputation as the nice guy, then I really should make sure she's okay.

Tentatively I approach. She's a tiny wisp of a thing with a heart-shaped face and short blonde hair. Her shoulders are shaking, and her knees are drawn up to her chest. Hesitantly, I reach out and tap her on the shoulder. "Are you okay?" I ask, and she looks up at me, quickly dashing her hands across her cheeks to wipe away the tears as she scurries to stand up.

I watch as she draws an invisible cloak of protection around her, closing off her emotions. "I'm fine, Mr. St- uh, Harry," she says, clearly remembering what I'd told Joe earlier.

Because she seems nervous, I try my mum's trick, leaning against the side of the trailer, my legs crossed, my arms to my sides, gazing at her. Not speaking, I wait. And then I wait some more.

She starts to fidget after the first few seconds. Then she glances at the trailer door and back to me. It's then that her resolve hardens. It's clear on her face and in her body language.

Nodding to her, I effortlessly push myself away from the wall. "Just know that you don't have to put up with being abused, Meg," I say to her softly, running my hand along her arm before turning back to my car.

Her soft voice drifts across the breeze to me, "Thank you, Harry. But you don't understand." As I start to return to hear her out, I realize that the door to the trailer has opened and closed. She's back inside with Xavier.

Damn. I wonder what it is she thinks I don't understand. But then mentally and physically, I shrug, ready to head home to a hot shower and wash away the ickiness of this day. Security on the lot is great about chasing off fans that try to wait at the gates, and I always randomly choose which entrance and exit to use. It's pretty simple actually. There are three gates to the film studio. I keep a die in my car. If I roll a 1 or 4, I exit through the main gate. A 2 or 5 means I'm going out the side gate. And a 3 or 6 means the rear gate. Completely random. As I start the engine, I roll the die and it lands on a 4. Main gate it is.

On the drive, I contemplate what I want for dinner. It's late, and I'm tired. What I really want to do is curl up on the couch and watch a rom-com. There's a new release on my cloud account that I want to watch again. I got to see the premiere when it opened because it stars my friend Chlöe Moretz, and she was kind enough to invite me along as her escort. Of course, that red carpet had the fans and paps freaking out because they made a big deal out of the fact that Chlöe and I were "together" when we were simply two friends on the red carpet, supporting each other. And then the inevitable questions about "Histy" which, after my engagement to Misty ended, the reporters all changed to "Hasty". As if anyone thought it was a funny ship name. My eyes roll so hard every time anyone brings up relationships.

No matter, though, because I can't watch Chlöe's movie tonight. It's the second Thursday night of the month which always means the same thing when I'm in LA: Mitch and Sarah will be over to set me up with some new girl they've met. The first few months, they had tried to pretend that it was all an accident; they had "just happened" to run into Susie (Yolanda, Martha, Neveah) at yoga class (the grocery, a concert, daycare) and (what a surprise!) she didn't have plans for the evening so they had invited her along.

They'd stopped the charade last month when I'd insisted they no longer bring unexpected guests over. Actually, I got a little pissed off at Sarah, telling her in no uncertain terms that I would choose my own women to date, thank you very much. Although I had not dated any of the women they introduced me to, Sarah had been offended when I asked her to knock it off.

"Harry," she insisted, "We're just trying to help you find your soulmate. Like you helped us find each other."

Her comment had immediately made me feel like shite for being frustrated with their meddling. I had apologized, and Sarah had perked up again, "Really? Cause I'd love for you to meet...."

My firm "NO" interrupted her before she could get the name of the poor woman out of her mouth, and Sarah acquiesced, agreeing not to bring any more dates over for me.

"And no men, either," I tacked on for good measure, "I can find my own companions, whether they be male or female. I'm perfectly capable."