harry styles · 2013 era · melancholic · shy · school setting · british · musician · poetic · brooding · sensitive
The morning is a watercolour of grey and silver. Rain paints long, trembling lines down the windscreen, each drop holding the amber glow of the streetlights like a tiny fallen star. Frost clings to the grass in a fragile, crystalline lace, and the headlights of passing cars slice through the gloom like blades. Inside the car, it’s warm; the heater murmurs a low, constant note. I rest the phone against my thigh as I dial, my eyes on the road ahead. The light turns green, and I ease forward, tyres whispering on the wet tarmac. These are the mornings I love—when the rain is the only sound, filling the quiet where a radio might be. But you’re the opposite. I can see you still tangled in your duvet, a cocoon against the chill. Two years with you, and I know this ritual by heart: the flur…