Cold Coffee

​
Harry is a very reserved boy. He dislikes female company, and he keeps to himself most of the time. A lot of the people around his age don’t quite understand why - he’s attractive enough to get at least a girls that way, but they would be wrong, because he doesn’t like boys that way either. And it’s kind of a deal of not really wanting to be like either boys or girls because Harry doesn’t fancy the idea of falling in love.

There’s a photograph of his father and mother pinned to his wall. They’re holding hands and laughing - Harry’s face twists slightly in pain whenever he sees it.

”Harry?”

”Hey mum,” Harry tries his best to make his voice lighter, but it’s hard. “How are you doing?”

”I- I’m fine,” his mother tells him, but Harry knows she’s not. “How about you honey?”

How about you honey means several things: I love you, I miss you, Are you alright, I worry about you, I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

Harry has never been sure whenever his mother has been apologising all this time about herself or his father - does it matter?

Not really.

”I’m good, yeah,” Harry replies, his tone non-committal. He’s not exactly, but when is anyone ever?

”And your friends?” They’re going through motions now.

”They’re good, mum,” he tells her. And they are good. Better than him, at any rate.

”Louis?”

”He’s good too. He’s on of my best mates, you know.”

”I know,” mum says, amusement tugging at her words. “Just checking.”

Harry rolls his eyes. He knows how much his mother love his best friend. “He’s got a girlfriend now,” he says, before he can realise his fatal mistake.

There’s a silence for a long rime on the other line. “Mum?”

”Yeah, I’m here,” she says. “That’s really good for him.”

Another pause. Harry sees it coming.

”Harry, maybe you should try-“

”No,” he cuts her off. “No.”

”Why not?”

”You know why,” he forces out.

”Harry, love is the most beau-“

”Oh, I know,” he says harshly. “It’s fucking amazing, love, it just lights up your life, doesn’t it mum? It makes everything so much better-“

”Yes! It does!” His mother sounds close to tears.

”Precisely why it tore your life apart,” he says bitterly. “And mine. And dad’s. Because of fucking feelings that you ‘couldn’t feelings’, love, was that what you were feeling?”

She doesn’t reply. Harry’s made his point.

”I’m not going to make the same mistakes you did,” he says harshly. “And I’m not going to let my whole life fall into pieces because of a girl.”

”Harry…”

”I have to go,” he says, even though he doesn’t. “I’ll talk to you later mum.”

And then he hangs up the phone and he buries his face into a cushion and screams.
”Harry!” Nick calls his name. Harry raises an eyebrow inquisitively.

”Boss wants to see you,” Nick explains, jutting his thumb behind him in the direction of the office. Harry frowns.

”Why?” He asks. Nick only shrugs.

”How should I know? Go see her and find out.”

He gets up reluctantly and walks to the glass door of the office. His appearance substitutes a knock, and soon he’s being waved in.

”Harry,” Evangeline says warmly. “How are you?” Evangeline silent for a moment.

”Good,” he says finally, his tone careful.

”Good, good.” There’s another pregnant pause.

”Have I done something wrong?” Harry blurts out.

Evangeline blinks. “Wrong?” She repeats. “Not at all.”

Harry stays silent - it’s enough of a questions.

”I just need to talk to you about the songs you’ve been writing,” Evangeline says. Harry swallows.

”They’re good, Harry, really good. But they’re not what we’re looking for.”

”Looking for?” Harry echoes weakly.

Evangeline nods eagerly, seemingly glad that he understands what she’s saying.

”You’re a pop songwriter, Harry. Pop. And while your songs are lovely, amazing, even, they’re…”

”They’re…?”

”They’re not about the right things.”

”Right things?” Harry’s aware that he’s beginning to sound like some sort of parrot, but he can’t bring himself to do anything else.

”Pop is popular, Harry,” Evangeline says, leaning back to her chair. “I know you know that, of course you know that, everyone in this building knows that. And you know what subject matter is popular, Harry?”

Harry knows.

”Love,” Evangeline says. “Everyone wants to hear about love! They want to her about love and sex and having a good time. But mostly about love. Because that’s what they’re used to! And Harry, the problem is - none of your songs are about love!”

”But why do we all have to fit the stereotype?”

”Because, Harry, that’s how this industry works. And right now, our artists aren’t going to get any top ten hits singing your songs, because they have nothing to do with love! At all! It’s like you’re avoiding the topic!”

Harry glares. Evangeline heaves a sigh.

”Look,” she says “You’re seriously one of the most talented people in this building right now, and God knows that’s saying something. I know you can do this, alright?”

”Alright,” Harry replies in a monotone.

”You’ll be able to come up with something,” Evangeline smiles. “You always do.”
Harry leaves the office after taking to Evangeline, even though his day isn’t over or another five hours. He figures she won’t mind, if he tells her the office doesn’t help with his creativity.

He goes to the nearest coffee shop and gets out his laptop, then opens a blank Word document.

He sits, motionless. The cursor blinks back at him.

I am so in love, he types out. He pauses, then adds with you, with a grimace.

Great start, Harry.

He grits his teeth in annoyance, then, feeling desperate, he opens up Google. How to write a love song, he types into the search bar.

With trepidation, he clicks the first link that comes up, which reads How to Write a Love Song: 11 Steps.

What follows is a series of extremely frustrated noises and gestures from Harry - and all because of the first point.

1: Write about your love. Before you turn your heart into poetry and music, you will want to express yourself without the constraints of meter and rhyme. To do this, describe the person you love, how they make you feel, and how it feels to be together.

Well, I’d do that if I had a person to write about, thinks Harry dryly.

He attempts to read on, but quickly realizes it’s a pointless endeavour. How can you write a love song and never been in love?

”You use your imagination.”

Harry almost spills over his coffee in surprise - since when has thinking aloud been a habit of his. The woman on the table to his right smirks.

”Are you talking to me?” He asks hesitantly.

She purses her lips. “Might’ve been,” comes the obscure reply. “Use your imagination.”

Harry frowns. “I’ve been trying-“

“Try harder,” she cuts him off nonchalantly. Harry’s frown deepens.

”It’s not that easy,” he replies, annoyance in his tone.

The woman shrugs and drains her drink. “There’s always the other option,” she says, getting up. Harry gives her a questioning look. She winds her scarf around her neck moving her hair, so it doesn’t get caught up. Harry watched as she heads for the door, then pauses before going out.

”You could fall in love.”
The woman’s words resonate in Harry’s mind long after both of the have left the coffee shop. Typically, he would should down and suggestions of romance with a bitter scoff and shake of the head, but they linger in his memory when paired with the image of the magenta scarf and chocolate brown hair of the woman in the coffee shop.

Harry becomes a regular at the shop, and quickly concludes that she is too. She’s never without a book, although often she’ll accompany it with a notepad and pencil.

On a bleak day in November, Harry enters to find a piece of line paper torn form the aforementioned notepad lying on his seat.

My name is Gabriella, it reads in a neat scrawl. Mind telling me yours?

Harry smiles and scribbles back a reply, only dropping it on her table on his way out.

I’m Harry.
It takes Harry and Gabriella a while to even have a conversations face to face, so caught up are they in a passing notes process reminiscent of their primary school days. Their exchanges are occasionally meaningful, often amusing, and almost always involving of witty retorts.

The staff become enamored by the pair who seem to communicate only though the written word. They even start to take part in the process - a waited clearing tables will moves notes from one table to the other, a waitress serving either Harry or Gabriella will hand them their drink with a pen and piece of paper.

Favourite colour?

Biggest man crush?

Rate that woman’s outfit on a scale of one to ten.

Have you ever been in love?
The last note from Gabriella rests on Harry’s desk at home. He has no idea what to write in response to her question.

Love doesn’t exist.

No.

Why do you care?

The second is the simplest. The third is the rudest. And yet, Harry feels adverse to giving her the first answer. Perhaps it’s because it’s the most personal.

No, he writes after some hesitation. Because it’s true.

Have you?
The have you tacked onto the end of Harry’s note is merely cordial. After all, when someone asks you how you are, don’t you respond and then ask back?

It’s not that Harry doesn’t care about Gabriella, because he does. He cares enough about her to continue with these notes. But he doesn’t care about love, he really, really doesn’t. In fact, his not caring about love extends so far that he doesn’t believe in it at all.

But all these feelings, but not feelings because he doesn’t care and emotions and ideas about love have to settle for being crammed into a simple two letter word - no. And perhaps the have you is all his not-feelings about love crammed into a two letter phrase with a question mark on the end, but the thing is, Harry feels out of his depth talking to Gabriella about love, and that’s probably because she’s a girl and he’s a boy, and does this mean she’s hinting?

And he can talk about crushes and attractiveness, but if the word love comes up in anything ever Harry becomes as confident as a deer caught in headlights, and there’s something about love paired with Gabriella that makes him so completely and utterly nervous, like five deer caught in headlights all at once and sharing their panic and he panics.

And he doesn’t give her the note.

A week passes - things are awkward. And then Gabriella does the thing that Harry wants, but lacks the balls to do and sits down at his table.

”Hello,” she says, and her eyes are already bright and Harry can kind of see his face reflected in them.

”Hello,” he says back.

”Care to buy me a drink?” The question is casual, but an order and Harry can already feel his lips curving up into a smile.

”Perhaps. Haven’t you already had a drink?”

”True,” she concedes. “But the on thing that I have has my name on it spelt wrong.”

”So you want me to tell them how to spell your name when I order?”

”No, just give them your name.”

”And would you care to enlighten me - why, exactly, do you want a cup with my name on it?”

Gabriella smiles. “Because there’s a ninety-nine point five percent chance that they’ll spell it right. At least then I can have the satisfaction of knowing that the baristas can spell simple, easy names.”

”I see,” Harry replies. “So it’s an experiment of sorts?”

”You could put it that way,” Gabriella says. “But I get a free drink out of it too.” Harry stands up rolling his eyes, but smiling.

”And I kind of really like your name,” she admits, still nonchalant.

”More than your own?”

”Definitely,” she pauses. “Harry,” she says trying it out. “I like it more than Gabriella. Harry.”

And there’s something about the way she says his name that makes him want to laugh and smile and almost sob all at the once and it completely terrifies him.
Gabriella is the one who asks, of course. Harry doesn’t ask the sort of thing.

”So, reckon we can try doing this kind of thing at maybe later time of day?”

Harry likes Gabriella. He likes her fingers and how she doesn’t wear rings. He likes how she tucks he hair behind her ear sometimes and he like the earrings that she wears on her ears sometimes. He likes how she holds her pens in a slightly different way to everyone else. He likes how she always brings a bookmark with her books, but folds over the pages anyway. He kind of really, really likes her voice and how in the morning it’s lower and by the afternoon it’s up to normal pitch (he likes both voices, but he likes the morning voice better, which is why he comes into the coffee shop earlier than he used to). He likes the way she says his name, but also the way she says other people’s, especially the names Katherine and Charlotte, who are her friends. He likes how there are certain bands she pretends not to like, but actually does. Harry likes Gabriella and he likes noticing these things about her, but he doesn’t know if he will like dinner with her because dinner means a relationship and a relationship means liking, but a lot of liking turns into love and love turns into Harry being like his father when Gabriella decides to leave?

Dinner means Harry cares, and although Harry does care about Gabriella, he doesn’t want to care about her in that way because caring gets you into all sorts of shit.

”Like dinner?” He can’t help clarifying.

”No, like breakfast,” Gabriella replies, her tone serious. Harry wants to laugh, but he isn’t sure he can.

”I…”

Gabriella cocks her head to the side. “Harry, do you like me?”

”Like you?”

”Like me, as in, go to dinner with me like me. Just be honest.”

Honest, be honest, tell the truth. The truth is that yes, Harry absolutely completely likes Gabriella, but at the same time he doesn’t and he isn’t sure how this is possible, but it is very, very possible, because it’s true.

And now it’s a question of saying the truth that Gabriella mostly wants to hear, which is the I really completely like you truth, but what about the other truth, does Harry just try and ignore that?

And now Gabriella is looking at him and he doesn’t even know what to say, what does he say?

”Harry,” she’s saying his name and that’s one of the things he likes about her, but he likes everything about her, but he doesn’t like her, does he? “It’s okay if you don’t like me like that, okay? I won’t get upset or anything.”

I like you a lot. I like how you wear your hat. I like how you hold your drink. I like how you cross and uncross your feet when you’re thinking.

”Yeah,” he breathes, because he’s scared and he’s an idiot and because love and like-liking someone doesn’t exist. “I’m sorry.”

Gabriella smiles. “It’s okay, it’s not like you can do anything about it,” she replies, although he kind of can do things about it. Harry stares at the tiled floor of the coffee shop and can see a few drops of spilt tea underneath the table that’s about six away from theirs.

”Harry,” she says his name and he likes it, but he doesn’t. “Look at me.”

He does, and he really likes her eyes and how he can see himself in them sometimes, but then he doesn’t.

”I can forget that happened if you can, and we’ll make it blissfully less awkward for everyone okay?”

”Okay,” Harry says, but is it okay?

Gabriella smiles and he likes it. “Okay.”
-

”Good morning,” Gabriella says, slipping into her seat opposite of Harry.

”Morning,” he slides her drink and caramel waffle across the table towards her.

Gabriella smiles, her eyes bright as usual. “Thank you, Mr. Styles.”

”Anything for you, Miss Johnson,” he replies, her smile infectious. “And how has your week been thus far?”

Gabriella takes a bite of her caramel waffle, her smile is growing wider. “Very, very good,” she tells him, her eyes getting brighter with each second.

”Oh?”

”Oh,” Gabriella agrees, nodding.

”Not just good?”

”Not just good.”

”And not just very good?”

”And not just very good.”

”And why is that your week has been very, very good?”

Gabriella pauses. “I don’t know if I can tell you,” she says.

Harry frowns. “Why not?”

Gabriella bites her lip. “Because - don’t take this the wrong way - “

”I won’t,” for some reason, Harry feels nervous.

”Well… you’re kind of a boy.”

Harry blinks, although he can already feel relied in the pit of his stomach. “Kind of a boy?” He repeats grinning. “I’ll have you know that I am most definitely of the male gender.”

Gabriella’s cheeks flush very slightly. “I don’t doubt you are, Harry,” she replies.

”So, what is that I can’t know because I’m a boy?”

Gabriella’s eyes are back to brightening like some sort of supernova. “There’s this boy.”

Harry struggles to swallow his mouthful of coffee. “Oh, cool,” he forces out.

”He’s called Chris,” Gabriella carries on, oblivious to Harry’s discomfort. “And I really like him.”

”As in go to dinner with him like him?” Harry asks. Gabriella smiles at his repetition of her own words form a few weeks ago.

”Yeah,” she tell him. “Definitely go to dinner with him. We’re going tonight actually.”

”That’s really great,” Harry tells her, and it is really great, because Gabriella has learnt to stop like-liking some who can’t like-like her back, and has found someone else who can. But why is there a strange tightness in his chest?

”You okay?” Gabriella touches his arm, her voice concerned.

Harry doesn’t know if he’s okay, because he doesn’t want to date Gabriella, but he doesn’t want Chris to date Gabriella either, and he really likes the hollow of her throat and the two freckles on her left shoulder and the way her jumper is too big for her, but makes her look ridiculously good anyway.

”I’m okay,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry doesn’t go to the coffee shop for a while after that. Instead, he goes for very long runs at a quarter to six on Saturday mornings.

And yet, he still manages to run into Gabriella.

”Hey, Harry,” she smiles and Harry wants to smile too, because he really likes her smile. “Can I sit?” She gestures to the bench Harry’s sitting on. He nods.

”Haven’t seen you at the coffee shop lately,” she says. Harry doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.

”You avoiding me or what, Styles?” She nudges him playfully.

”How’s Chris?” Harry asks abruptly. Gabriella looks at him curiously.

”He’s good,” she says. “We both are.”

”Tell me about him,” he looks at her intensely.

”Okay, well, he plays in a band,” she says. “He’s a lead singer and guitarist. He’s pretty sure they’re gonna pick up on a record deal soon, probably from Universal, maybe XL. They just need to play a couple more gigs live, show people what they’ve got, he says. He wants me to come to one of their rehearsals at some point.”

”What else?”

There’s a long pause.

”Seriously? You two have been going out for three weeks and four days and all he talk to you about is his band?”

”Harry -“

”He sounds like a twat,” says Harry. “Does he even ask about you at all?”

”Harry -“

”Or know your favourite colour? Or your celebrity crushes? Or anything?”

”Harry!”

He falls silent. Gabriella studies him.

”How long did you say?” She asks, her voice soft.

”What?”

”Me and Chris - how long did you say we’d been dating?”

Harry blushes. “Three weeks and four days,” he says slowly.

Gabriella holds his gaze for another moment before sighing and slumping back onto the bench.

”You know more about our relationship that he does,” she murmurs.

”Yeah, well, he sounds like a prick,” Harry mutters in reply.

”He’s not that bad,” Gabriella defends. Harry snorts.

”Oh, I’m sure he’s lovely,” he says, sarcasm dripping form each word.

Gabriella looks at him for the first time with something akin to annoyance. “And you give a shit because…?”

Harry feels his stomach twist into horrible knots. “Because he doesn’t deserve you.”

”And you do?”

His eyes widen. “What have I got to do with this?”

”I don’t know, you tell me! You’re acting like a jealous prat than anything else,” Gabriella snaps.

”I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Harry says, but he is trying to convince himself or Gabriella or both of them?

”Typical,” Gabriella lets out a humourless laugh. “You are a typical boy, Harry Styles.”

”And why is that?” He retorts, anger seeping into his tone.

She gets up. “You’re only interested in something once you can’t have it.”

And she leaves. Harry doesn’t even know why she was in a park at six in the morning in the first place. Maybe she was looking for him.
Harry really like Gabriella. But he thinks there’s a possibility she doesn’t like him anymore.

And maybe it’s for the best, because now he doesn’t have to care at all and he can avoid all the problems created by like-liking someone. But the thing is Gabriella doesn’t need to be right there drinking coffee opposite him for Harry to think about her nose and her hair and somehow her permanently clean converse and the hairbands on her wrists that she always has, but barely uses.
She drops a note on his table as she leaves.

Meet me in the park. 5:30 tomorrow morning.
-

He’s there at five fifteen, bleary eyed and dizzy with lack of sleep, but early anyway. She comes at five thirty, then sits down on a park bench. He sits next to her,

”Hi,” he says.

”Hey,” Gabriella’s lips turn upwards slightly, but the smile looks sad - wistful. “I wanna try something.”

”And what’s that?”

She glances down at her watch. “It’s five thirty-two right now. For twelve minutes, I want both of us to only tell the truth. The complete truth. No lies, no watering down, nothing.”

Harry hesitates,. “Okay, ” he says finally.

”Twelve minutes,” she says, looking back her watch. “Go.”

”I really like your lips,” Harry says immediately. “They’re just stupidly perfect and I think a lot about kissing them.”

”Your number’s in my speed dial even though we never talk to each other by phone,” she says in response.

”I think Chris is a dick and I want nothing more than to kick him in the balls.”

”I think it’s half cure and half strange that you like Shakespeare as much as you do.”

”Please, everyone love Shakespeare.”

Gabriella rolls her eyes.

”I think you look amazing when you wear those Ray-Ban glasses that you don’t actually need.”

”Your hair look better when you leave it down.”

”Your determine to not care about things sometimes annoys me, but mostly makes me want to make you care.”

”You have no idea how crazy you drive me when you say my name in your morning voice.”

”I have a morning voice?”

”In the morning your voice is lower. Kind of husky.”

”Huh,” Gabriella says. A wry grin spreads onto her face. “So I have a morning voice right now?”

”Yeah,” Harry says. “And I find it really goddamn sexy.”

”Harry,” she says, as though trying it out. Harry swallows.

”I find you sexy quite a lot of the time,” he says.

”The feeling’s mutual,” Gabriella replies. “And the rest of time you’re either ridiculously adorable or ridiculously annoying, but mostly adorable.”

”I completely like you, completely and utterly like you to pieces, to the point where I basically think about you every other minute of the day, but I tried not to like you at first because I don’t want to end up like my dad when you leave me for someone better, or we just end up falling apart.”

”I don’t really plan on leaving,” Gabriella says simply.

”Your nose is ridiculously perfect, I’m actually kind of jealous of it,” says Harry.

”You should wear jumpers more often, especially green ones. They bring out your eyes, and I’m pretty sure they attract the attention of every women within a ten mile radius.”

”From now on I’m going to spend all of my time trying to get you into Shakespeare.”

”One minute left. I find it ridiculous that you don’t listen to pop, but you write pop songs for a living.”

”I never know how you keep your sneakers clean.”

”I really like that you’re fluent in French.”

”I find it hot that you speak Italian.”

”Thirty seconds,” Gabriella says. “I’m going to kiss you know.”

”Okay.”

And she does. Harry can feel their noses bumping together, red form the cold. He wants to run his hand through her hair, but he has gloves on, so he settles his hands on the small of her back. Gabriella tugs at his hair slightly and he gasps. She tastes of coffee and caramel waffles. And traces the hollow of her throat with his fingers because he loves it, and he can hear both of them breathing hard and ends up running his hands through Gabrielle’s hair anyway, and he thinks that he really likes her and he really like kissing her in a park at five fourty-four in the morning.

Harry enters the coffee shop and sees Gabriella sitting at a table by the window, reading Twelfth Night intently.

Being careful to remain inconspicuous, he sits down on the other side of the shop and scribbles a quick note, asking the waiter to give it to Gabriella’s when he comes to wipe his table.

If music be the food of love, play on.

Could’ve sworn someone called Shakespeare over dramatic only a few days ago.

Harry smiles as Gabriella reads the note and begins to look for him. Once she spots him, she scribbles back a reply, then presses the piece of paper back into the waiter’s hand.

The waiter crosses the shop with a smile on his face, dropping the note back onto Harry’s table. Harry smiles at the reply.

Well, you should know that some is reading these plays only that she can understand what the hell you’re talking about half the time.

Harry grabs his bag and coffee, moving across to Gabriella’s table. Gently he takes the book out of her hands, then lifts her chin and bring his lips to hers.

”Good morning,” she breathes when he pulls away.

”Morning,” he says in response.

”Any reason for that particular greeting?”

Harry shrugs. “Not particularly,” he says. “I just really like you.”

Gabriella looks at him for a moment, then sups her coffee and returns to her book. “Me too,” she says without looking up.
Harry happens across a note still tucked into one of his drawers.

Have you ever been in love?

The words are slightly smudged, scrawled with a ballpoint pen.

Underneath, his own handwriting, the pencil marks faint. No. Have you?

Harry glances at his mother and father, pinned to the wall. He looks at their laughing faces, and their hands joined together.

And he realises that maybe his father doesn’t regret his hear having been broken, because having it so beautifully whole for even a temporary amount of time was worth it,

And he definitely doesn’t just like Gabriella. He like-likes Gabriella. And he like that she like-likes him back. And he thinks about her so often that it doesn’t feel like just like-like anymore, it doesn’t feel like go to dinner with her like her, and what is he even doing, does he even know what he’s doing anymore?

”Harry! To what so I owe this pleasure?”

Harry sits at Evangeline’s desk. “I’ve done it. I’ve written one.” He pushes the manuscript books to her across the table, accompanied with a CD.

She looks at him for a moment, then takes the CD and turns to the stereo behind her. “Let’s have a listen then,” she smiles.

And she does. She has listen for precisely four minutes and twenty-seven seconds, and when the song’s finished, she takes the CD out of the player and stares at it for a moment and then she looks at Harry.

”Who is it?” Evangeline’s eyes are warm.

Harry clears his throat. “Her name’s Gabriella,” he replies. “And I like her very
much.”

”I’ll say,” Evangeline smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Styles.”

”You’re welcome.” He gets up and turns to open the door.

”Harry?”

He looks at her over his shoulder.

”I think it’s a little bigger than liking, don’t you?”

And the strange thing is that she’s right, but Harry doesn’t even know what to do about it.
”Harry?”

”Mmm?”

”I’ve been looking this song up,” Gabriella tells him.

”Oh, what song? Why?”

”No particular reason. I guess… the lyrics sound familiar.”

”Alright.”

”Did you write it?”

”I…” He glances at the Google page she has open, and all the results that have come up. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Gabriella sits so she’s facing him directly. “Who’s it about?”

Harry exhales slightly. “This stupidly, madly, ridiculously brilliant person,” he says quietly. “She has this hair that I love the smell of and these lips and a nose that are so perfect it’s almost weird and speaks Italian and he best friends are called Charlotte and Katherine, and she somehow manages to keep her shoes constantly spotless and she has this most gorgeous amazing sexy voice in the morning, and I really, really -“

”Don’t say it, ” Gabriella cuts him off in a low voice.

Harry looks confused “Say what?”

”You really, really, really like me,” Gabriella says.

”I…”

Gabriella closes her eyes. “Harry, I really really love you, but you really, really like me. And I don’t even know if you’ll ever love me. Because you’re too scared to try.”

She leaves, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut, and he thinks about Gabriella and the song he wrote about her and he thinks it means something, and it does, but he has to let it mean something, because Evangeline was right, it’s a little bigger than liking.
Two nights later, Harry walks into the coffee shop. Gabriella is reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He walks past her table and drops a crinkled up piece of paper onto it.

Then he watches from his seat at another table as she unfolds the paper from her own notebook.

Have you ever been in love?

I have now.