Perfect Teeth

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with his stuff?”

“Ezra?” ZZ’s voice was groggy through the phone, probably because it was only a little after seven in the morning on a Tuesday in January, and she sounded confused and disgruntled. She still got points for answering, because I would’ve ignored her call.

I’d thought about calling my mom, but ZZ seemed like a better option, considering my parents were old and totally already asleep by now. And I was a little sick of hearing the sigh that built up in my father’s throat every time we talked about the disaster that was certain aspects of my life right now.

“Yes, it’s Ezra. Hi.” I confirmed. “What do I do with his stuff?”

“Harry’s?” She said his name and I managed to withhold my wince. I was getting better at hearing his name, at letting the syllables register and not feeling the little punch of hurt to my gut as profoundly.

It had been a little over a week and I was working on it. Nine days of class and school and ignoring looks that lingered for too long or a hushed whisper. I’d cried the first two days, tears spilling down my cheeks as I brushed my teeth and saw the stupid purple electric toothbrush at my sink, or rushing into the bathroom after my second class because even though they probably weren’t, it felt like the entire world was staring at me, but I was getting better.

I had plans. I had a course of action. I was going to get my shit together, one day at a time, and eventually, maybe, hopefully, one morning I would wake up and it would be easier to breathe.

Currently, my course of action entailed organizing, cleaning, and redoing my entire apartment. Inspiration struck earlier that morning, when I’d roused at 5 AM from a dissatisfying sleep, rolled over, saw a pair of brown boots that weren’t mine, and decided I’d had enough already.

Stress cleaning was a trait inherited from my mother, but I was convinced that clearing out my apartment, unpacking the last of the boxes from the move, and hopefully getting some of Harry’s things cleared away would lift some weight from my chest.

“What do I do?” I pressed. “Mail it to him? Set up a mutual meeting ground? Geocache it? Sell it on eBay?”

She let out a grumble of dissatisfaction, shifting in her bed, before she cleared her throat. “Why are you up at... 7:04?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Ezra--”

“I’m cleaning and organizing.” I explained quickly, though one quick glance at the state of my apartment would entail that the ‘cleaning’ part was a little relative. “And there is a pile of his stuff in the corner of my apartment and I don’t know what to do with it.”

She hummed. “How much stuff?”

“A lot of stuff.” I poked the edge of the pile with my toe, eyeing it warily. “I had to throw a blanket over it so it would stop haunting me.”

“He really did live at your apartment, didn’t he.” ZZ muttered dryly. “Couch surfing millionaire.”

“You are not helping.”

“Is it expensive stuff?” She asked.

“I don’t know?” I glared at the pile in front of it, blaming the pile of non-sentient objects for even existing in the same realm as me. Projecting anger was fun. “It’s clothing and shoes mostly. A few books, his stupid shampoo. He took his computer, at least. But I don’t know what to do with it.”

“What are the labels on the clothes?” ZZ’s voice was suddenly much clearer and more alert. “Good clothes? YSL? Burberry?”

“ZZ--”

“I’m just asking!” She defended quickly. “You woke me up from a dream that included Niall Horan and his tongue, the least you can do is indulge me! Tease me with expensive clothing! Is there a watch? I read that he’s got like, a watch worth fifty thousand pounds. Is there a Rolex just sitting on the floor of your apartment?”

“There’s a brown Burberry coat.” I could see one of the sleeves sticking out from under the blanket. “And some boots that are probably expensive?”

ZZ hummed happily, before suggesting,“You could sell it on eBay and pay off a year of uni.”

That made me snort. “What am I supposed to list it as? Harry Styles Worn Jumper - Pay 5,000 pounds because there’s probably still some of his DNA on it? I’m just trying to get rid of it, not get arrested.”

“He’s the one who left it at your flat.” ZZ reasoned.

“I don’t know what to do with it.” I repeated my problem again. “He probably wants some of it back. They’re his favorite boots.”

I hated that I knew that.

“He hasn’t said anything?”

“I haven’t heard from him.” In like, a week. At least seven days. (Not that I was actively trying to count.) And it was the longest stretch of silence we’d ever had.

ZZ made a sound of contemplation. “When I broke up with my ex, I just texted him and we exchanged stuff. Does he have anything of yours?”

“Not that I can think of.” At most there were probably a few stray hair ties in his car, but I figured I could pass on those. “So he needs to come here? To my flat?”

“Or you could meet somewhere, but considering he can’t even go to Tesco without the paps, it’s probably best to not be in public.”

I ignored her and suggested, “Maybe I’ll stash it in a public place and then send him a screenshot of the Google Map coordinates.”

“You think a pile of nice clothing is gonna last longer than five minutes exposed somewhere in London? People get mugged for a fiver and a Costa coffee.”

“What about like, a locker? I could get a storage locker, give him the combination, and bam. Exchange done. Like a drug deal.”

She quickly found the plot holes in my plan. “That still requires you having to talk to him. And if you have to talk to him, you might as well just let him come and pick the things up at your place.”

I was still not on board with this idea. “But I wouldn’t have to see him in person. I don’t want to see his face.”

Now ZZ sounded intrigued. “Why?”

Because I was afraid of regretting my decision. Because I could stick by what I’d done when I was thinking about nasty YouTube comments and the very swift rise and fall of my image in the public, but it was harder to hold to my decision and stick to my guns when Harry was in front of me, looking hopeful and then sad and like I’d everything I’d ever wanted out of a romantic entanglement, Beethoven hair and all.

“I just...don’t.” I eventually responded, lame words falling flat.

“I thought you two were trying to be friends?”

I exhaled slowly, still giving the pile the stink-eye. “I have no fucking idea,” I told her honestly, because, like most things in my life right then, I had no fucking idea. I had no fucking idea what I was doing with Harry, with YouTube, with my career. I couldn’t even pick between an onion or garlic bagel most mornings, let alone figure out how I was supposed to navigate all things adulthood.

“You haven’t seen him since he--?”

“No. Not since...and he texted me a few days later to tell me that management was taking care of some stuff, which I think he meant damage control? But that’s been it.” Thinking about the lack of contact made my head hurt, spare hand reaching up to rub at my temples. ZZ’s small little sympathetic coo only made it worse.

“Maybe he’s waiting for you to text him.”

“And say what?”

“That you have some of his stuff and would like to return it to him, for starters.”

“He’s probably busy. Doing important things. And I don’t want to bug him.”

“Ezra.” I was making excuses and ZZ knew it.

“I really think this locker idea could work!” I pressed on. “Simple! I’ll just pack it all up in a box and get a lock and carrier pidgeon over the details.”

Her voice dropped to soothe. “You probably need to talk to him sometime.”

“No, I really don’t.” I disagreed. I was hoping we could both ignore the way my voice cracked. “Every time I end up talking to him I end up crying and the headaches are fucking awful.”

“Take a preventative ibuprofen and get on with it.”

“You are not being the supportive and comforting friend that I need you to be right now.”

“It is 7 o’clock in the fucking morning. I’m being exactly what you’re gonna get. So stop whining, text Harry, and get it over with. You said you wanted to be his friend - you made a whole big to do about wanting to be his friend, so figure out how to do that.” She wasn’t exactly snapping, but she wasn’t exactly the picture of kindness either. I let the words fall between us, uneven breathing the only sound on the line.

Finally I whispered, “It’s hard.”

ZZ let out a little sigh, voice softer. “I know. But compared to everything else you’ve done this year, it won’t be the hardest.”

“Fuck.” I let the sound out as a hiss, before standing up straight and gearing myself. “Okay. Okay. I’ll just get it over with. Like a band aid.”

“Like a band aid.” ZZ said back, before letting out a yawn. “I’m going back to sleep. Tell me how it goes.” And then, with a kissing sound in my ear, she clicked off.

I stood in the middle of my flat, glaring at the pile of clothing, and kept repeating the word to myself - bandaid, bandaid, bandaid. It would be like ripping off a bandaid, quick and painful but then soon forgotten about. Except everything else with Harry was much slower, like taking out stitches or trying to work out a hangnail, so I don’t know why I expected this to be any easier.



I didn’t know how to properly compose the text, so I went with my gut and started tapping away at the screen, only reading it over once before hitting send.

hey, it’s Ezra. Some of your stuff is still at my flat

and I was wondering what you would like to do with it

like if i should send it somewhere or something??

just let me know!

Harry replied within minutes.

Hi. Would it be alright if I picked it up today? Is that okay?

I stared at the phone screen, momentarily panicked at his quick response. It was seven in the morning on a Tuesday and I expected him to be sleeping or drunk, not sober and ready to reply to me. I needed a time cushion. I also needed Harry not to know that I was panicked.

uh if you’re up and out, yeah totally. just let me know when.

I’m out now. Are you free? If you’re not, don’t worry. But whatever's convenient for you. I’m pretty open right now.

yeah now’s fine. they changed the code to get into the building so just text when you’re here and i’ll let you up

Alright. See you soon.

And I panicked, because I wasn’t entirely sure what I was expecting to happen when I sent the text, but I wasn’t expecting today and I wasn’t expecting so soon. My hair was pulled away from my face, bangs held back with a bobby pin, and I was wearing an oversized sweater and not much else. The freedom of having your own apartment meant that I didn’t have to wear pants unless it was completely necessary, and most days it just wasn’t completely necessary.

I scrambled, pulling on the first pair of leggings I found by my bed and unpinning my bangs, spraying a fourth of a can of dry shampoo and running it through the roots of my hair with my fingers. And it wasn’t that I really needed to look spectacular for Harry - it was Harry, who’d seen me after three days of not showering and just lounging around doing nothing - but considering the last time I’d seen him I fell asleep after sobbing on his chest, I felt a bit like I had something to prove.

I was still debating on if I needed to put a proper bra on, peering down at my nipples through the collar of the flannel shirt, when my phone buzzed on the table.

‘See you soon’ apparently translated to less than ten minutes. Because Harry was here and I wasn’t ready.

I grabbed my keys off the coffee table, slid my feet into the first pair of shoes I found, and descended my way down the flights of stairs to let Harry in. I could see him peering through the thick lobby door, hands shoved deep into the depths of his thick coat, light pink beanie covering his head.

He sent me a small, polite smile when he saw me, and I tried to pretend that seeing him again, in the flesh for the first time in a week, wasn’t a punch to the gut. Even if it made me feel like I was going to stop breathing any second.

“Hey,” he greeted when I twisted the knob on the door and opened it for him, ducking to the left so the blast of cold winter air wouldn’t totally bombard me.

“Hi,” I replied, stepping away from the door so Harry could slide inside, shutting the entrance behind him.

“Thanks for letting me pick the stuff up right now.” Harry said as we climbed the stairs, words somewhat stiff as they tumbled from his mouth. “I know you’re probably busy.”

It was seven in the morning. And he thought I’d be busy. We were familiar enough with each other to know that the assumption was forced and false, but Harry and I were being much more formal than normal.

I shook my head and cleared my throat, awkwardly shuffling up the stairs before him as I blanked for what to say. “I’m just cleaning. Or redecorating. Or both.”

“Redecorating?” Harry echoed.

“Trying to get rid of some clutter, make it more homey, I guess? Like I’ve been here for almost four months and it still feels very bland white apartment, so I’m trying to make it more homey.” I struggled with the right words, but I couldn’t stop them, just kept rambling as we kept walking.

I didn’t know if Harry was feeling the tension between us or also scrambling for what to say, but he kept up the conversation with ease. “Finally unpacking your last box?”

“I did that yesterday, actually.” I replied. “And I’m so shit at labeling that I couldn’t even remember what was IN the box, so it felt like I was unwrapping a gift.”

Harry chuckled. I hated that my heart swelled when I made him laugh. I refused to look at him. “Anything good?”

“No.” My shoulders slumped as we made it up the last flight of stairs. I tried to cover my slightly winded breathing by laughing as well, but the sound was breathy and off. “It was mostly just some knick knack stuff that I must’ve decided needed to come with me on the move. Which is kinda funny, because I didn’t need them at all in the last four months. But whatever.”

“That’s good then.” Harry said, stopping behind me as we made it in front of my apartment door. “Or, well, not good, but good that you unpacked it.”

“Yeah.” I replied lamely, and then I swung open the door. I’d done a shit job at putting Harry’s belongings in order, just kind of shoving them all in an empty box and hoping that I’d gotten all of it. From the toothbrush to the facewash to the family reunion t-shirt, it was all there. All of the parts of him that had moved into my flat when I’d allowed him to move into my life, and now I needed to give them back so I could move on. Seeing the reminders everywhere was too painful.

“I, uh, think I got all of it?” I questioned, moving quickly to whip the blanket off of the pile, shoving it in the corner and hoping that Harry wouldn’t ask. “But you might want to do one last sweep through just in case.”

Harry’s eyes lingered on the t-shirt at the top of the box, the navy fabric and the bold font staring us both in the face. I’d stolen that t-shirt from him once without the intention of ever giving it back. And now I was giving it back.

“I’m sure it’s all there.” Harry said, eyes barely glancing around the small flat, which was still in the midst of cleaning and organizing chaos, piles and stacks every which way. Maybe he just didn’t want to spend more time here than absolutely necessary.

I wanted to tell him that he could always text me if something wasn’t, that he could just swing by and pick it up, because we were friends and friends had those privileges, but I couldn’t get the words out properly.

“How’s school?” Harry asked, after another moment of awkward silence and both of us shifting where we stood.

“Good!” I answered, overly enthusiastic, before attempting to calm myself down. I swallowed thickly, consistently wondering how the hell I was supposed to get through this conversation and act like it was normal. “It’s good. My Media and Politics professor hates American politicians with a passion, so we talk about that a lot. He really doesn’t like Joe Biden, which I find a bit off putting, because Joe Biden happens to be my second favorite American vice president, but I’ll allow the man to be wrong in his opinions. It’s good though. It’s school. I have a lot of spare time now, so it should be easy.”

The thing with talking to Harry was that he gave you his undivided attention, eyes never straying from your face as you spoke, and it was hard to talk to him when he was looking at me like that and pretend that everything was okay. To have casual, nonchalant conversation when all I could think about was that my bed was empty and I hadn’t slept properly in ten days and I knew that it was all my decision and my choice but the silence still felt suffocating.

“Oh yeah,” Harry nodded, as if reminding himself of something. “So you’re - done with YouTube then? For good?”

I paused, nervous hands fiddling with the hem of my flannel. “For right now, at least. It was getting toxic and I couldn’t do that right now. I, um, I quit Tongue and Cheek too. I don’t know if I told you but Damien was the one who released the photos.”

“Damien?” Harry seemed surprised, eyebrows raising, and he took an instinctive step forward. I made myself stay still. “Producer Damien?”

“Producer Damien.” I confirmed.

He swiped a hand along his face, some distressed emotion crossing his face that I couldn’t completely place. “That’s awful.” He finally said. “Fuck that’s...I’m sorry.”

I shrugged his apology off, because he could take the blame for a lot of things, but Damien being shitty wasn’t Harry’s fault. “I threw a fit and threatened to sue. So I feel okay.”

“Threatened to sue?” The distress turned to disbelief, and then almost pride, as Harry laughed.

“I made a lot of shit up and name dropped your lawyer.” I felt more embarrassed now explaining my hectic and not incredibly well thought out plan to Harry, but I also felt proud, because it had successfully navigated out of the contract. There was legal proof in my email and everything. “But it got me out of my contract, so it’s good.”

“So you’re done?” He tried to clarify, and the words looked like they almost hurt him to say. “No YouTube, or Tongue in Cheek, or anything online?”

I nodded. “Just for - just for right now. I have a few more obligations with Daily Mix, but they’re more low key. I think I just need to take a break from the Internet.”

“But are you good?” Harry asked, concern lighting up his entire face, and he tentatively took another step forward, so there were only a few inches of space between us. “Do you need anything? Money wise? Or other?”

“You don’t have to pay like, alimony, Harry, this isn’t a divorce.” I shot him a look as I laughed awkwardly, leaning away from him. “School’s paid for throughout the year and I’ve got a savings account. I’ll manage.”

He exhaled quickly, trying to laugh it off too. “I just - I want to make sure.”

“I’ll be good, don’t worry.”

He took a moment to accept that, before his voice dropped, and he very slowly, very carefully whispered, “I’m sorry, you know? For everything.”

He’d said it continuously. He apologized over text, he apologized a week ago, and he was apologizing now. Apologies were meant to be comforting, little nuggets that acknowledged wrong doings and soothed scars, but these prickled as reminders and I didn’t want to hear them. I didn’t want to have this conversation all over again. “Stop. You don’t - we don’t have to--.”

This conversation was the exact reason why I hadn’t wanted to see Harry face to face. Because the sincerity and the hurt and the guilt that he felt made me want to burrow into his chest and burrito under my blankets and exist solely the two of us. But that kept fucking me over and I needed to be strong. Even when he kept talking.

“I could’ve done more.” He said, his voice low and scratchy, and he was so close to me I could smell his shampoo and it was the kind of scent I knew that would stick with me for months and months. It made me want to cry. “I think I was just so caught up in all of this, in falling in love and feeling like I had something that was mine again, that I allowed myself to be oblivious. But that ended up hurting you and I’m so, so sorry.”

It wasn’t just him.

It was never just him. I was just as big of a contributor to the downfall of it all as Harry was, and I hated seeing the broken look on his face as he tried to take the blame for everything. He was the biggest people pleaser I’d ever met, consistently putting others before him and trying to do what was right. It was never a question of him taking accountability - I didn’t need to hear that he was sorry to know that he was. And him saying it wasn’t really going to change anything anyway.

“It’s okay, Harry,” I told him gently, my hands instinctively reaching out to touch him, to give him a soothing rub on the arm or chest, but then with a wince, I withdrew. “I know.”

Harry’s eyes followed my hands closely, fingers running across his lip as he eyed me, then the pile of things. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Do you have a bag or something? I don’t really...I wasn’t really planning on picking this up.”

“Ever?” I asked.

“Not really.” Harry admitted, hands jittery and shifting again. “You need space and I respect that.”

I turned away from them, too close to making a sad noise in the back of my throat at the dejected look on his face, and crossed to the kitchen, grabbing the box of garbage bags from underneath the sink.

Because I needed space from his but I didn’t want space from him all at the exact same time.

“Here.” I said, shoving a garbage bag in his hands and ignoring what he’d said. “You can use these.”

With the plastic bags in our hands, Harry and I both leant down and started working. We worked diligently in silence, folding and placing and packing, and I struggled for what to say, sometime of quip or joke to settle the tension, but I was drawing a blank. I tried not to focus on the items in my hands, full of his scent and our memories, or the boy next to me, whose stoic face was good, but I thought I could see through it. I wondered if we were both really that transparent.

Harry was the one who spoke first. Folding his legs underneath him, he heaved a sigh, eyes flicking over to mine as he shook his head. “This fucking sucks.”

And it was the sentiment I’d been repeating in my brain for the past 12 days, over and over again. “Really fucking sucks.” I agreed, and then quieter, the words slipping out before I had much time to think about it. “And I’m sorry.”

Because Harry’s apologies could only do so much, but I still felt like I had miles to go. I wasn’t going to take the blame for all of it - most of what transpired between us was completely out of my control - but I hated hurting him like this. I hated seeing the dejected look on his face, the sad drop of his voice.

I hated the distance between our bodies as we sat together and I hated the way I couldn’t touch him anymore and I hated knowing that we were both going to sleep tonight and it wasn’t going to be together. I hated that even the thought of baths or milkshakes or Wes Anderson movies now made me flinch with the hurt, because it all came down to Harry, Harry, Harry, and now when there was a Harry, there was no longer the attachment of an Ezra.

Harry rejected my apology immediately. “No, I’m sorry--”

“We should not start the apology train.” I cut him off with a firm shake of my head, grabbing another sweater and shoving it into the bag. “Because then we’re never gonna stop.”

Harry let the left side of his mouth pick up in the hint of a smile, his apology cut off mid-sentence with a little laugh. “It’s like agreeing on a TV show all over again.”

I scrunched up my nose and rolled my eyes. “The TV you watch is shit.”

“No it’s not! It’s informative. I like knowing things--”

“There is absolutely no reason why anyone needs to watch that many crime documentaries unless they’re training to become a serial murderer. And okay, How It’s Made is good, but some of the History channel stuff--”

“You bullied me into watching the Kardashians!” Harry cried indignantly.

“I just happen to think Kim K is a very inspirational lady and I wanted to share that with you. Not my fault you found it awkward because you’ve met them all.”

He scoffed, but the smile that crawled up his face was almost blinding. “You should stick to picking movies and I’ll choose the programmes we watch.”

“At least you acknowledge my supreme taste in films.” I sniffed, head tilted haughtily in the air while Harry laughed.

“I’ve acknowledged that from the start. Except when you made me watch the strange French film. You said it was surrealist or whatever, but it was fuckin’ mental.”

“I still can’t believe you didn’t like Holy Motors. David Lynch you can handle, but I give you Holy Motors and you freak.”

“He BIT off a FINGER! That’s not right!”

“It was MORE than that.”

“Whatever, it was still fucking strange.”

“One day, you will be enlightened to the beauty that is surrealist cinema and everything will be okay.”

“All right.” Harry snorted. “Doubt it.”

And I’d been so caught up in the entire thing, in the banter and the films and the ease that came with talking to him, despite the small bits of awkward tension, that I didn’t notice that we’d finished packing up all of his things. And I didn’t notice that we’d been speaking in present tense the entire time, like there was a potential day when we could watch more films or figure out how to settle on a compromise on who could choose the television we watched. Like we were both a unit that would keep trucking on, rather than the two separate entities that I had forced us to become.

“All right,” Harry said, as he slid the last pair of shoes into the garbage bags. “Think that’s it.”

We both stood up unsteadily, my knees smarting uncomfortably as I tried to lift the bag. Harry plucked it out of my hands easily, bunching them both by his feet.

“Sure you don’t want to do one last sweep through?” I asked.

Harry shook his head. “Nah, it’s okay. You probably want to get back to cleaning and I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” I replied, feeling the little turns of hunger in my stomach. “I’ve been cleaning for too long and this girl is in desperate need of a breakfast burrito.”

“A breakfast burrito,” Harry’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Chorizo and eggs with extra hot sauce. My mouth is actually watering.”

“Stop it, I’m so hungry and you’re not making this better. Is there anywhere even open this early? That’s like, good?”

“There’s a place by Nick’s house.” Harry pulled out his phone to check the time. “They’re open. If you get dressed quick, we could probably make it by eight and--”

I wasn’t even contemplating saying no to him. The entire routine was so familiar. We’d done this plenty of times - banter and food and sex and jokes were all things that Harry and I were familiar with, and he made the plans and my initial thought was to follow them blindly. I was ready to spring into action, grab a pair of jeans and contemplate if wearing a bra was really necessary, and then Harry’s words faltered.

It was like we both remembered at the same time.

He stopped talking and I stopped moving.

“I--” I opened my mouth but didn’t know what to say.

Harry closed his eyes and shook his head quickly, looking angry - either at me or himself I didn’t know - before he cleared his throat and fished out his keys.

“I should go.” He said.

I didn’t agree, but I nodded anyway. Harry grabbed both bags in his hands, lifting them effortlessly, and crossed towards the door. I followed behind him, heart heavy with each step he took closer to the door, and tried to figure out how I was going to be okay as I watched him open it. At least last time I didn’t have to watch him leave.

“Take care.” He said as he stepped through the threshold, sending me a small, strained smile.

“You too.” I managed out, voice cracking embarrassingly, and I refused to look him in the face, staring at the collar of his coat until he moved.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he promised, but I didn’t know if I believed him, if I believed anything about this friends arrangement if it was going to hurt as much as it was hurting now.

“Yeah.” I agreed anyway. “Talk to you soon.”

And then Harry pressed a kiss to my forehead, lips lingering for only a second too long, and then he left.

The door shut behind Harry and I collapsed against the couch, breathing deeply as my head lolled back on the cushion.

I stared up at my ceiling, feeling much more tired than anyone this early on a Tuesday morning should be feeling, but it was like the last thirty minutes had completely depleted my emotional capacity. Harry had a good way of exhausting me.

I was proud of myself for not crying, for keeping it together, and then I opened my eyes, staring straight ahead as I contemplated what had just happened, and my eyes landed on the TV.

The slim, modern, flat-screen, plasma TV, which was still stacked on top of some books precariously. Harry’s TV. Which he’d insisted on, for the movie dates and the education to continue.

I’d completely forgotten about TV.

That was when I cried.



www.tumblr.com/tagged/ezra+callil

it’s like ezra callil disappeared from the internet

tbh i didn’t think she’d even read some of the stuff i feel kinda bad like :/ but then again that’s the territory that comes w dating harry styles soooo

i miss her videos it’s been like a month how long is this gonna last

today i saw Ezra Callil on the train. so she’s not dead

she’s just being such a drama queen don’t you think?

holy fuck some of you just miss the point entirely don’t you



A series of texts which were composed, but never sent:

hey

how are things?

it has been a week i have changed the sheets i bought new pillows i even flipped the mattress but nothing is working i can’t sleep

i hear there is a new single in the works, congrats!

i am so fucking MAD AT YOU why did you do this to me i TOLD myself not to get in too deep i knew the consequences were going to be bad but i did it anyway and you just crawled inside of me and like fucking died there i don’t know but it hurts harry it hurts how do i get over this

we said friends this does not feel like friends

i’m pretty sure you’re waiting for me to text you first because this was my decision but i don’t know how to talk to you without feeling like i’m going to choke or cry or lose it i am barely holding it together and i want to talk to you but i feel like you hate me because i did this and i don’t know how to fix this and fix me at the same time

does that make me selfish?

i am so fucking sick of crying over you

please come over please

hope everything is well xx



1/14/14
from Gemma Styles
Hi Ezra, I know we are not close, and this may be weird, but if you need to talk to someone, I’m all ears. Take care. xx

1/17/14
from Liam Payne
been a while just checking in to mke sure things r good call me sometime xx

1/21/14
from Nick Grimshaw
I owe you a better apology than a text, but this is a start. I’m sincerely sorry. Hope all is well. x



There are a lot of things you can do in a month. Some people write a book, plant a garden, create a blog. I started my YouTube channel over the course of a month. It was the gesticulation period of some animals and enough time for the moon cycle.

It wasn’t enough time for me to get over Harry Styles.

But it was enough time for me to get over some things.

I could walk past a gaggle of teenage girls without flinching and scroll through my Instagram feed without feeling nauseous. Multiple trips to TJ Maxx and various Pinterest fails had my apartment feeling like it was mine again. I was sleeping better. The anger I’d felt towards the world - at the media, at the fans, at every twist of fate that had somehow come together to make Harry and I happen - was starting to fade and dim. And I’d stopped crying every time I saw something One Direction related out in public, which was ace, considering how littered the entirety of London was with all things 1D. I still had Advil tablets in my bag just in case, but I was making progress.

Some nights it hurt. Sometimes it felt like there was an ache in my chest that was only expanding, the outline Harry’d left on my existence digging under my skin and muscle to settle and crack my bones.

Everything had been split into Before and After piles, and now I was trying to keep my composure and make it through the After when the memories of Before were heavy in the air around me. But I was working on it, and I thought I deserved points for trying.

With my parents on Skype in mid-January, I’d made a list of everything I was displeased with and how I needed to remedy it. When my father had suggested the idea, as methodical and systematic as ever, I scoffed at him. Some things couldn’t be dealt with in lists and solutions.

But my mother had agreed with him, settling me with her always wise look and saying, “In order to find a solution, you need to identify the problem and why.”

I started identifying my problems, which hurt, but the reflection had to be good somehow, I figured. I hadn’t come up with a solution for all things, even most of them, but I had come to the conclusion that I needed more friends.

Because in the month that Harry and I had been officially broken up, my social calendar was mostly put on mute.

I had ZZ, who I was coming to realize was an angel with pastel (though now newly dyed back black) hair, but that was kind of it.

So I was working on it. And working on it meant finally, after 3 extended invitations, accepting Tristan’s poking and prodding to join him and his friends for a meal at The Grill. Tristan had been the one to sit next to me in my Media & Politics lecture the first day back, shrugging off his coat and saying, “So, been spat on lately?”

In all of the chaos that was the last few weeks of my life, I’d never properly thanked Tristan for stepping in and helping me that day on the Tube. He’d accepted the apology with a shrug and then continued to sit next to me, twice a week for a month, and he made the awkwardness that was going back to school a little more bearable.

I’d still been hesitant about spending much time out and about, but ZZ finally told me to get my shit together (she did that a lot) and accept the invite.

I stumbled into the crowded Grill after my last lecture of the day, a little past four o’clock, and spotted Tristan immediately, sat at the end of a very packed, circular booth in the back. His booming laugh was enough to alert anyone of his presence.

And I couldn’t left then, but I’d made it that far. I walked past the booth where Harry and I’d had our first ever meal together, keeping my eyes firmly trained ahead, and I walked right up to Tristan and made my presence known.

“Hi,” I said when he spotted me, face brightening as he made room for me at the table. My hands were slick with sweat from either nerves or the blast of heating in the place, and my stomach felt funny, but I could do this. I could introduce myself and make friends and figure this all out. “I’m Ezra.”