Know: A Harry Styles Fan Fiction

Louis' flat is buzzing with guests when I arrive. He lives in a different, busier neighborhood of London than I do, in a spacious studio home with minimal furniture and maximal clutter. People are stuffed inside, each with a drink in their hand, some merrily swaying back and forth to some hilariously off-key karaoke singing.

"Harry, my lad! So glad you could make it!" Louis says, lazily slinging his arm around me. His face is already flushed pink, matching the giddy grin across his lips. "Where's Jules? I was really hoping to meet her. She must be a really cool girl if she's okay with you being such good mates with your ex."

"Louis," I say, hoping he sees my seriousness past his glazy eyes, "Me and Samanthora are not mates, not even close. There's been a huge misunder---"


"Har-reh!" Samanthora shrieks, sounding already too drunk. No doubt, the combination of her skin-tight dress and numerous wine coolers has her wobbling toward me.

I met Samanthora at a mutual friend's hotel party. She knew exactly who I was before we even shook hands. Within the first ten seconds of meeting her, she gave me a summary of her entire modeling career, which was limited to a couple catalogues and local television adverts.


"But I'm working my way up," she had told me, as if I was some sort of modeling agent she was trying to pitch herself to.

I thought she was pretty so we went out for a little while. I wanted to keep my personal life the way it's meant to be---personal---but she kept demanding that we go public with our relationship. I even caught her waving at paparazzi when we were out together. That behavior wasn't very different from the girls I've gone out with, so I didn't think much of it.

And then I met Jules.

"Samanthora, we really need to talk," I say.

"Yeah, you bet we do! What is the meaning of this?!" she huffs, swatting a flimsy tabloid in front of my face.

Smack in the middle of the front page is Jules and I with an accompanying headline in yellow block letters: HARRY STYLES AND... SOME GIRL? I bitterly roll my eyes. She's so much more than some girl.

One cover photo shows us getting off the London Eye and another is of us on the ice rink. They're candid, of course, and very dark and grainy. She's holding my hand while her head is thrown back in laughter at something I said. She always seems to enjoy my jokes, no matter how dumb and cheesy they are. And even with Samanthora fuming at me, I can't help but smile at the evidence that no amount of graininess can hide Jules' effervescent glow or her radiant beauty.


"Yeah, that's me and my girlfriend when we were out last night," I reply without so much as blinking. "What else do you want me to say?"

"Girlfriend? I thought I was your girlfriend!" she whines.

I heave a sigh, unimpressed by her thick-headedness. "You haven't been my girlfriend for a while, Sammie---"

"Sah-man-thor-ah," she corrects, dragging out every syllable. "You know I hate nicknames."

"Listen to me," I say, lowering my head to level with her eyes. "We are not together, not dating, not hooking up, not a couple, nothing."

She gapes at me in disbelief, her eyes and jaw wide open like a dead fish. If dead fish wore massive amounts of makeup. "Are you breaking up with me? This close to Christmas? Does that mean you're not going to get me that necklace I wanted?!"

"I'm not breaking up with you because you are not my girlfriend and I. Am. Not. Your. Boyfriend. How many times must I tell you?" I slowly answer, trying to contain my frustration.

Her wrist flinches like she wants to throw her drink at me but luckily, her glass is empty. "Harry Styles, you are nothing but a player and a heartbreaker!" she shouts, turning a few nosy heads our way. "Fuck this party, I'm out of here. You'll come back to me soon, just you watch!"

Don't hold your breath, I think to myself. While fiercely resisting the urge to verbalize it, I take a wide step to the side to clear her path to the door. As Samanthora storms (or attempts to storm but mostly stumbles) past me, I make a mental note to change all my phone numbers as soon as I get the chance.

I've almost forgotten that Louis is still here. He's been watching speechlessly from the sidelines, and he's still a bit aghast when I turn my attention back to him.

"I'm really sorry about that, mate," I mutter. "Why did you invite her?"

"She told me that you had invited her," he answers.

"Why would you believe her?"

"Idunno, I had no idea she was so mental. I'm sorry, Harry."

"Don't be, it's over now," I say with relief, handing him a gift-wrapped box.

He shakes his head, growing even pinker than before. "Oh, no, I feel bad. I can't take that now."

"Don't be ridiculous, open the damn thing, Louis."

"Yeah, Louis, open the damn thing," says a voice afflicted with many years growing up in the Irish suburbs. Niall appears beside me, hugging a jumbo size bag of potato crisps and leaning his arm on my shoulder. He gives me a how's-it-going nod and I pinch his pointy nose.

Louis snatches the present from my hands and chirps, "Well, alright, if you insist!"

After eagerly destroying the wrapping paper, he holds up a glossy box containing a brand new football. During our last tour, the lads and I were kicking Louis' favorite ball around in the parking lot and I accidentally hurled it over the fence and onto the street, where an eighteen-wheel truck proceeded to run it over. Both the ball and Louis' mood were flatter than a pancake, and I felt awful.

"I know it's not the same brand as your old ball..." I start to say apologetically.

"Is that a Nike Maxim Hi-Vis?!" Niall yelps, quickly losing interest in his snack and examining the box as Louis pries it open.

Louis inspects the ball with a stunned expression, giving its yellow and blue surface a firm squeeze. "Christ, it's better than my old ball!" he says. He passes it over to Niall who lights up with joy and bounces it off his knee a couple times.

Louis envelopes me in a suffocating hug. "Thank you, Harry."

"Of course, mate," I mutter under his grasp. "Happy birthday."

"Where's Louis? Louis!" a soft voice chimes from the other room. Eleanor peeks over the hoard of people and urgently waves at her boyfriend. "Time for birthday shots, love!"

"Again?" Louis groans. "I've already taken..." He starts counting on his fingers, then tosses his hands up. "Ah, who cares? Happy birthday to me!" The rooms erupts into cheers and claps while Louis shimmies his way toward the kitchen. Niall follows closely behind with the brand new ball. "Aren't you coming, Harry?" he calls over his shoulder.

"You two go ahead. I'll catch up with you later."

I'm not particularly in the mood for drinking but I pluck a beer from the cooler just so I don't feel awkwardly empty handed. Wandering amongst the crowd, I trade friendly smiles and nods with the few familiar faces I see. There's a spot on the sofa alongside Liam and Sophia, who are having a conversation centimeters away from each other's faces. The only other place to sit is on the floor by the shoe rack. While I debate between third wheeling and smelling like feet, I hear my name called in a mild yet enthused voice.

I look over my shoulder to see Zayn emerging from the mass of people. "How are you doing, Harry?" he says after a sturdy embrace. "I hardly ever see you outside of work days since you told me about that girl you were seeing."

I've told all the lads about Jules. Well, to be more accurate, I've bored them to tears. I'm a bit of a hypocrite in that sense. Whenever the boys used to talk about their crushes or girlfriends too much, I'd take the piss out of them for being a "lover boy" until they shut up. Now I'm the one who needs to shut up.

"I've been better," I vaguely reply.

"What's the matter? Girl trouble?"

Before I have a chance to answer, he places a hand on my shoulder, saying, "You know what I always tell you when you have girl trouble."

"'Everything will work itself out in the end,'" I quote him. "That's easy for you to say. You know what your 'end' is going to be like and it's with Perrie. You're getting married, Zayn. You found your one."

"And someday you will too."

"I think I already have," I mutter, casting my eyes at the ground, "but I've messed up so bad, I don't think she'll ever want to see me again."

There's a lull in our conversation. I haven't spoken while I wait for him to ask what it is I did wrong, but he doesn't. He pulls his lips inward and for a while he doesn't say anything, just staring into the small pockets of space between the mingling party guests. "There's only one thing to do at this point," he finally says.

"Which is?"

"Tell her the truth."

"The...truth?" I ask, uncertain of his suddenly new tone.

"Yes, the truth." He lowers his voice before reiterating, "The whole truth." His eyes stare me down for a couple more seconds than what's considered normal, his expression sullen and serious.

And then it clicks, and a small but nagging fear forms in my stomach. It's almost as if he... knows. But he doesn't know, does he? There's no way he knows. It's impossible. Zayn can't know.

"What are you talking about?" I whisper, glaring at him suspiciously. "Have you been following me? Does anybody else know? Does Jules?"

He shakes his head with a quiet laugh. "No, mate. I just pay attention to people."

As he tips a gulp of his drink, I feel like I'm making a major breakthrough in the mystery of Zayn's quiet, soft-spoken personality. He's an observer. He doesn't say a lot because there's already so much going on inside his head. He registers everything around him, from minor details that most people miss, to deep secrets that nobody else would find out about. Zayn tends to be the most insightful one among us five, and possibly one of the most intuitive people I know. But to this extent? It's just plain creepy.

"I'm not going to tell anyone," he says, still in a lowered voice. "I don't like what you did, but it's not my business to judge you."

"Thanks, Zayn," I murmur, too ashamed to hold eye contact for more than a second.

"It's okay to make mistakes, but you've got to own up and learn from them. Otherwise, you'll never grow."

"Well, I've got to wait another two weeks to do any growing," I glumly answer.

"She's already flown home, hasn't she?"

"Yeah."

Of course he knows. Should I even be surprised anymore?

Zayn stares at me, his eyes glinting with a mischief that I seldom see. "Then what are you still doing here, Harry?" There he goes again, a man of very few words, but I'm aware of their meaning right away.

Notes