Bloom

November 

Texting Harry was a surprisingly strenuous task. When he actually replied, that is. His replies came in two forms: immediately, or several hours later. But he never left a message unanswered, regardless of what it was. I think he liked having the last word in a conversation, because even after I sent a goodbye text and fell asleep, I'd wake up to six from him all saying different versions of the same thing. There was also the expectation that I had to be witty and come up with quick and clever responses, because that was how Harry texted. My humor came and went, sometimes I was on fire and could be way funnier than anyone else in the room, but other times (usually when I was thinking too much about school or having a personal crisis) my jokes and comebacks dried up. 

I was having one of those mornings where all you want is to lie in bed and forget about everything else. I had a quiz in Thermal Physics at four, and a lecture and three hour lab before that. It was just past eight, a time I never enjoyed being conscious for, and I'd just gotten off the phone with my mother. It seemed as though every time she spoke, she pushed the idea of me going to see my dad in Manchester, even though she knew very well it was the last thing I wanted. But she was adamant, and I had a feeling that the visit would happen eventually. 

Just when I'd finally pulled together the strength to get out of bed and do a bit of review, dragging my feet across the carpet, my phone beeped with a new text. At first I thought it was Mom, but we'd just gotten off the phone. Then I saw Harry's name, and wondered why he wasn't getting ready for the 24 hour One Direction show or whatever it was they were doing in L.A. 

What are you doing right now?

My guess was that he'd seen something funny online and wanted me to see it. 

Just got out of bed. Isn't it midnight there?

Yes. Are you busy? Want to chat?

In Harry speak, chat meant video calling. We'd never actually done it before, but he kept on bringing it up. I replied asking for a few minutes, then we'd have a quick call because I needed to study. It would probably end up taking a lot of time, just because Harry spoke like he was in slow-motion, but I was being optimistic. 

Once I'd put on a bra and found some sweatpants tucked into the bottom drawer of my dresser, I logged onto Skype and sat down at my desk. Harry rang through a few seconds later, his face taking up my entire screen. 

"Hiiii," he drawled. It became clear that he was stretched out on his hotel room bed, one arm propping up his head toward the camera. "Your hair's a mess."

"Thanks," I replied dryly, rolling my eyes. But I grabbed a hair tie from atop my dresser and twisted my hair into a bun, shooting Harry a pointed look. He grinned, giving me a thumbs up. "Why are we doing this?"

"Because I wanted to see you and talk instead of just some words on my mobile," Harry explained. "It's very difficult to tell if we're actually getting on when all we're doing is texting." 

It was actually kind of sweet, that he was so determined for the two of us to be friends. Like he was making up for some wrong, when the fault had really been on both of us. 

"Anything in particular you want to talk about? Because I've got stuff to do and you're my method of procrastination. You'd better have something interesting to say." 

Harry grinned. "What stuff? You aren't going out looking like that, are you?"

"Once again, you're just the epitome of charming, Styles," I said without an ounce of humor. I probably should have tried a bit harder to look presentable, but he'd caught me on a bad day. I could feel yesterday's eyeliner sticking to my lashes, which probably wasn't too attractive. 

"Styles? Have we reached the nickname stage already?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Your last name is hardly a nickname. And most people don't decide to start a friendship a few days before one of them flies across the Atlantic, so I think we're allowed some exceptions." 

"What shall I call you then? Does Imogen have any nickname options?"

"I'm sure you'll figure something out." 

"What does your mum call you?" he asked, shifting around. He lifted up the laptop and placed it on his lap, dropping one hand onto his stomach. 

"Imogen. If she's annoyed with me, sometimes Imogen Rose." 

"Too many letters!" Harry exclaimed. "I'll have to stick with Imogen for now. Unless Immy is allowed."

"No. Absolutely out of the question." 

He pulled his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, obscuring the grin on his face. It was strange, seeing him smile so much. I was used to Frowning Harry. Smiling Harry was so much better; it seemed more natural on him, rather than being irritated all the time. 

"You still haven't said what stuff it is you've got to do today," said Harry, after a moment. "If it's uni stuff I'm not sure I can be very helpful."

"It's uni stuff," I confirmed, and Harry sighed. 

"You can still tell me about it, if you like. I'm an excellent listener."

I smirked. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

Harry rolled his eyes dramatically, waving a hand at the camera. "I don't want to listen to what the other girls say. It's all 'shoes' this and 'lying bitches' that."

"Sounds exhausting." 

"That's why I don't do both with one girl," Harry said, noticing my confused expression immediately. "Dating, especially when you've got virtually no private life, just isn't worth the trouble. I've not got the best reputation, but it's better than being labeled a cheater or for her to be a slag. At least the girls I'm seen with now don't care if they get photographed leaving a club at three in the morning."

His voice was detached, as though what he was saying wasn't quite in line with how he really felt. I don't think anyone could really be so shallow, but something terrible must have happened with his last girlfriend for Harry to be so jaded. 

"You could just avoid girls altogether," I suggested. "Then you'd have a clean reputation and not have to worry about dating."

Harry belted out a laugh. "Hilarious, Imogen, really. Could anyone really sign off on no human contact? Like-"

"You're allowed to say sex, Harry, I'm not eight." 

"Fine then. Even if it's not all that personal, it's still fun, yeah?"

"I wouldn't know," I said, then realized the vagueness of my statement made it sound as though a different meaning was intended. 

Harry, to my surprise,  grinned triumphantly. "I knew it! I had a feeling, but it seemed a bit awkward to ask Matt or Silas." 

I groaned, pressing my palm to my forehead. "I'm not a virgin. Shit, I really do not want to have this conversation with you. This is way beyond my awkwardness tolerance level." 

"We're learning about each other! That's what friendship is, love," Harry said, far too cheerful for my liking. 

"I can't believe you thought I was a virgin," I lamented, still focused on his earlier statement. "Do I have that sort of face? Don't get me wrong, I'm not like you when it comes to this stuff, but fuck - I'm just going to stop talking now. Can we change the subject please?" 

Harry was positively gleeful. "Alright, but only because I can tell you're tired and probably not conscious enough yet for this to be interesting."

"Do you interrogate all your friends about their sex lives?" 

"Usually that's Nick's job," Harry supplied with a shrug. 

"Ah, yes. I recall that conversation. I think he was a bit disappointed." 

"I'll keep my expectations low, then." 

"I feel weird now. Aren't you British people supposed to be polite and subtle about everything? Because from what I've seen, some of you are worse than Americans. Americans, Harry." 

He wasn't at all fazed. "I'm curious," he defended, suddenly serious. "I've already told you that." 

"Yeah, curious to see how many guys I've slept with," I muttered, making Harry's face split into another shit-eating grin. Suddenly I was missing Frowning Harry, the one that wanted nothing to do with me. 

"Now, tell me why you look like you want to tear someone's head off."

"I've got a quiz later today and I'm not prepared. I hate this feeling."

Harry's eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer to the screen. "What's really bothering you?"

"The quiz," I replied flatly. 

"Like I said, I'm a good listener. There's something else on your mind that you aren't telling me."

I blinked at him in disbelief. "Harry, I'm not going to start unloading all of my problems on you. You really don't know how this whole friendship thing works, do you? The point is to make the other person like you, not scare them off."

He raised his eyebrows. "Keep in mind I don't see my friends half the time, so we usually skip all the shit and talk about important things. You're the one who doesn't want to talk to me now that I actually want to get to know you."

"I don't like it when other people are right," I grumbled. "Usually I'm the logical one. Quit it, man, you're throwing me off my groove." 

"Your 'groove?'" Harry queried, dimples deepening in his cheeks. "I swear, you talk like my Nan sometimes." 

"You got a problem with the way I talk, Styles?"

"Quite the opposite, actually."

"So me talking like your Nan is a good thing?" I asked, eyes narrowed. "You're a weird one. Maybe this won't be as hard as I thought." 



There were two types of boys in the Astrophysics program at UCL. The ones who wore permanent frowns whenever I was in the vicinity, who whispered judgemental comments about my clothes, and who just generally didn’t want to be associated with me. On the other end of the spectrum were the ones who worshipped the ground under my feet, who couldn’t comprehend the fact that a girl who didn’t “look like a nerd” was smarter than most of them. Instead of viewing me as some sort of personal offence to them, these boys all bore varying degrees of infatuation for me. It got a bit weird when one of them slipped a Doctor Who valentine (despite the fact that it was mid-October at the time) into my lab notes, but they were mostly harmless. A few of my professors actually found the whole thing rather amusing, particularly Dr. Hamilton, who I myself had a minor crush on — based (mostly) on the fact that he was probably the smartest person in the room at any given time. 

It wasn't that there weren't any other girls there, either. Our section had about ten girls all together, and some of them stood out just as much as I did. One girl had bright blue hair and wore a leather jacket every day. But I was still shunned by half the class. I think it was a combination of my being American and fashionable. 

My lab partner in Physics of the Universe (usually just called Physics), Elliott, was somewhere in between. He seemed to like me well enough, but he was constantly surprised when I knew the answer to something before he did. When I'd gotten a higher mark on the midterm, I think he had a minor aneurysm. 

"Have you done the quiz in Thermal yet?" I asked as we were wrapping up the three hour lab. "I've got it next, and I don't know if I've got all the formulas down." 

"You'll do fine," said Elliott, a little miserably. "I've got it in the morning. A different version, I expect." 

I hadn't had time for lunch before the lab, and Elliott decided to join me at Pret A Manger to grab a coffee for himself. He was done for the day, but was headed to the library for a night of studying. Such is the life of an Astrophysics student. 

"Good luck on the quiz then," said Elliott, when it came time for us to part. "And text me about studying on Saturday, yeah?" 

"Okay," I replied, throwing a smile over my shoulder. 

I got out of Thermal Physics not feeling any better than I had when I woke up that morning. The Skype call with Harry had lightened my mood for only a few hours (and that was after he stopped asking me about sex) and I was back to feeling tired and frustrated and miserable all at once. I knew what would make me feel better, and I sent texts to both Matt and Silas asking if they were home. 

Using the kitchen at Astor was a nightmare, since it was always crowded and messy, so I stress baked over at Matt and Silas's apartment. They didn't mind, since I left most of the food there, and they had brownies or cookies for the next three days. I stopped at Tesco's to pick up some ingredients on the way, already having a recipe in mind. Silas had been nagging me about making double chocolate biscuits for over a week now, but I hadn't been stressed enough to actually do it. 

Silas was in class, so Matt was the one to let me in. He eyed the overflowing rucksack on my shoulders and the plastic bag from Tesco's dangling from my fingers and knew immediately what I'd come for. "Just using me for my cooker," he muttered. "I swear it's the only reason you're still friends with us."

"Nah, there's also the big TV," I replied with a grin, dropping my bag at the door and heading straight into the kitchen. "And let's be honest, you need me more than I need you." 

Matt smiled, coffee-coloured arms folded across his chest as he leaned in the doorway. "We've gotten quite attached, I'm afraid. Don't know what I'd do if you were to disappear one day." 

He wasn't obvious about it, but I'd suspected for a while now that Matt was developing feelings for me. He was so much better than the last boy I'd dated, but a boyfriend was the last thing on my mind. Unlike Harry, I didn't cope with a broken heart (which I wasn't sure he had, but I had my suspicions) by having sex with a different person every night, forgetting their name by the morning. I took the opposite route, swearing off the opposite sex until I was fully healed. 

"Back to business as usual," I replied cheerfully, deflecting his somber tone. Matt bit his lip, searching my face for something.

"Right," he murmured, and I couldn't tell if he'd found whatever it was he was looking for. "I'll let you get to it then."

Matt retreated to his bedroom, probably to do coursework. In the past, when I'd shown up frazzled and upset, he lingered just to ensure I was okay. He didn't talk, he just leaned in the doorway or against the counter as a way of showing that if I wanted somebody to vent to, he was there. Usually baking did the trick, but I'd had a particularly stress filled midterm season back in October and ranted to Matt about unfair marking. 

When Silas returned from class, he walked right past the kitchen without noticing I was in there mixing chocolate chips into cookie dough. But he popped his head in a second later, brows furrowed. "You're baking," he stated. "What's happened?"

"Bad day," I sighed.

"Why isn't Matt in here with you? It's not like him to leave you alone." 

I glanced at the doorway. "I've noticed," I said quietly, just in case Matt was lurking just outside. "Any idea why that is?"

Silas raised an eyebrow. "I think you've got one," he stated, all business. The protective roommate thing went both ways. 

"I don't know if I should say something to him," I sighed, keeping my eyes on the dough. "In don't want him thinking that there's something there." 

With deliberate movements, Silas came up next to me and leaned against the stove. "But there is, isn't there?"

"Honestly, I haven't been looking for it. I don't want to. Maybe he's misreading my reluctance for coyness?"

"D'you want me to speak with him?" Silas asked softly, his hand coming to rest on my forearm. "If you're sure about not wanting to-"

"That's the problem, isn't it? I've got so many other things on my mind right now and I just can't think about starting a relationship. But if I was ready, and Matt does actually like me, then I'd probably go for it," I said, heaving a heavy sigh. 

Silas squeezed my arm, a sympathetic smile on his face. If there was somebody to talk to about ambiguous relationships, it was Silas. He was caught in a dance with his ex-boyfriend, the outcome unclear but the possibilities endless. 

If there was anything positive in my current relationships with the male gender, it was Harry. He'd done well to assure me that our relationship was strictly platonic, and even if there was attraction (because he was Harry Styles after all, and I'd be crazy to deny the fact that he was hot as fuck), he didn't mix romance and friendship. It was one or the other. And right now, that black and white world was a welcome relief.