Know: A Harry Styles Fan Fiction

They're green. Harry's eyes are not gray or blue or hazel but a green that glisten like emerald gemstones if the street lamp hits them a certain way.

I learn that when we walk outside.

"Are you really going home?" he asks.

"Yeah. I have homework tonight and class early tomorrow."

"Are you taking the tube?"

I nod.

"Can I walk you there?"

I nod again.

When we arrive at the underground station, Harry sits and waits with me on the concrete bench. I count the trains as they come soaring into the tunnel. As loud as they rumble, watching and listening to the flurry of colors is oddly soothing.

"How was your day?" Harry asks, detaching me from my daze.

"Um, it was good," I answer. "How was yours?"

"My day was lovely," he responds.

We're quiet again. I get a sense that Harry's trying hard to keep a conversation rolling but we simply don't have anything to talk about. Either that, or I don't know how to hold a conversation with a stranger. It's most likely a bit of both.

"You don't go out much, do you?" he speaks up again.

I shake my head, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

"Not much for talking either?" he asks.

I chuckle nervously. "Sorry, just kinda tired." It wasn't entirely a lie.

I'm generally a quiet person as it is but for some reason I can't explain, Harry makes me even more quiet and bashful than usual. Perhaps it's the way his eyes watch me with such intent, like he wants to know everything about me and doesn't want to miss a thing.

He smiles crookedly with a single dimple chiseled into his cheek. Suddenly it hits me.

Harry's smile drops.

"What's the matter?" he asks.

He must have noticed my expression.

"I've seen you somewhere before..." I begin, "but I don't know where."

He looks at me without comment as I mutter to myself, racking my memory. Maybe I had a class with him in the past? No... Maybe I saw him on the subway before? No, that's not it.

"Were you ever on TV?" I ask.

The crooked smile reappears. "A few times, maybe."

"Really? That's cool. What for?"

He pauses for a second, like he's quickly calculating his words. "I was on some adverts with my mates."

"Wow, must've been exciting," I say.

"Yeah, it was a good laugh."

We're both quiet again.

"You haven't seen me anywhere else?" he asks after a while.

I shuffle through my mind again. "No, I don't think so."

"What about in... One Direction?" he says slowly, sounding vaguely reluctant.

I look up at him, puzzled. "What in the world is that?"

At first he looks completely shocked, but then I realize it's more of a look of sheer delight and maybe even excitement.

"I like your accent. American, is it?" he asks.

"Yep. Adamsville, Connecticut."

"Hmm, Connecticut. That's straight across from here, right? Just over the Atlantic."

I nod in response.

"Still, I can't say I've been there before," he says.

"You're not missing out, trust me," I answer.

He laughs but I'm serious.

"Everybody likes to say that about their hometown," he says. "It makes me feel a bit odd for saying Holmes Chapel has a lot to offer."

"Holmes what?" I say.

He simply smiles. "How long did you say you've been in England?" he asks.

"About four months."

"And you're here for...?"

"School, mainly. And because London's my dream city."

A homeless man staggers into the station and slumps against the wall with a beat-up guitar in his arms. He starts to strum a folky tune and mumbles words too soft to understand. The commuters in the station proceed with their business, walking past him as if he's invisible.

"So is this city everything you dreamed it would be?" Harry asks.

I mull it over for a moment, watching another group of people walk past the homeless man. One of them, a boy with too many rips in his pants, runs back and drops a few pounds into the homeless man's cup. He lowers his cap to him, his face beaming with appreciation.

"I think it will be," I say, "eventually."

Harry glances at his wristwatch.

"It's starting to get late. Do you think we missed the last tube?" he asks.

"No, this one runs all night. You don't have to do this, you know," I quietly tell him.

"Do what?"

"Wait with me. I really appreciate your help back at the club but don't feel like you're obligated to keep protecting me or anything."

"Obligated?" he says, laughing as if it was the most ridiculous word he's ever heard. "I'm not obligated to do anything. I just wanted to hang out and chat with you."

Still feeling uncertain, I keep silent.

"You look like you're afraid I'm going to mug you any minute now, like I'm waiting for the right moment to run off with your purse," he says with a light chuckle.

I know he's joking but I instinctively clutch tighter to my school bag.

"Tell you what? Put your number in my phone," he says, fishing it from his pocket.

"My number?" I say, stunned.

"I want to hear more about you. Maybe get more words out of you," he nudges.

I recognize his move all too well. It's what guys do when they feel bad for you but don't have the heart to crush your self-esteem. I type in the digits to let him feel like he's doing a good deed and hand back his phone. As if on cue, my train swooshes into the tunnel a minute later.

After I board, I hear Harry call after me.

"Wait! What's your name!"

"Jules!" I shout back, hoping hears me past the closing doors.

As if it matters anyway. I know he won't text me.

He stands there wearing that crooked smile again, with one hand in his pocket and the other waving at me. I wave back, until the engine whirs into motion and he disappears behind the brick wall.

Notes