The first day of school reels around far faster than Harry could've predicted, and suddenly it's Monday morning, and he's in a panic.

His hair won't sit right, and he's tempted to rip it all out. He wants to scream, and slap himself in the face all at once - he's stressing like he did on his first day of secondary school. He's stressing like he did at the beginning of every day throughout secondary school, each day spent fearing when he'd next be picked on or abused for looking and acting different. His glasses were pushed from his face more times than he could count, and he began to wear skinny jeans and only skinny jeans in fear that prints would attract more attention. He liked experimenting with fashion more than most guys his age he'd come across, but it was often he didn't dare to - but here, for whatever reason, he's taking the chance.

His contact lenses are in. He doesn't expect the college kids to act like the high school ones, but he still doesn't dare take that chance. One risk at a time.

He's wearing a hoodie, a little big for him, almost khaki in colour. It's paired with his black skinny jeans and brown boots, as well as one of his favourite coats, black with white stripes and reaching just above his knee, while his camera hangs comfortably around his neck by its strap.

The black nail polish on his nails is barely there, but  he doesn't have the time or bother to repaint them. Instead, his rings cling comfortably to his fingers, and he slips his wallet and phone into his pocket. It's eight-thirty, and he doesn't have long. Why had he picked a nine o'clock class?

His keys are put into his pocket as he exits his apartment building and heads straight for the coffee shop - the one he has been visiting and revisiting since the day he arrived here. He walks in, holding the door for the people behind him as he flashes a smile and a nod in response as they thank him and pass. He then follows, getting into line and ordering a black coffee to go when it's his turn. He pays, adding one sugar to the cup after he receives it - and then he's on his way. 

Google Maps guides him to the campus, and he makes it with ten minutes to spare, his coffee cup clasped in his fingers as he walks down the hall, anxiety starting to settle in the pit of his stomach. This isn't high school, he reminds himself.

He pushes the door open to the room labelled with the same room number on his schedule on his phone. He takes a sharp inhale before exhaling once more, as nobody even turns around at his entrance. There is only about half a dozen other people in the room, mostly girls but a couple of guys are there, too, none even shooting Harry a glance as he enters. A wave of relief washes over him, and he hastily makes his way across the room and takes a seat. The chairs are laid out in a circle formation, and he sits where there are a few seats either side of him, bringing his coffee cup to his lips and taking a sip of his drink.

More students gradually enter the room as the time edges closer to nine, and soon enough more or less all of the seats are filled around him, only one remaining to his left and one across from him, where he assumes the teacher is supposed to sit.

The girl on the right of him has been staring at his side profile since she'd sat down, mindlessly twirling a thin piece of hair around her finger as he doesn't look up, unaware to the staring.

She clears her throat, and he looks up, not expecting the noise to have been directed at him, but quickly realising that it, indeed, was directed at him.

"Hey," she smiles, her lips painted pink. He of course, returns the smile out of courtesy, and lays his phone in his lap. 

"Hello," he warmly returns, raking his fingers through his hair as he turns his head to look at her properly.

"I'm Layla," she giggles, and he frowns slightly. What's funny about that? 

"Harry," he responds, and she quickly speaks again.

"You like Art?"

He rubs his hand on the back of his neck, eyebrows furrowing slightly, "Uh, yeah - yeah I do. A lot."

"Camera stuff?" she asks, pointing to the camera hanging around his neck. He looks down at it for a second, before looking back at her.

"Photography, yeah."

"Oh, that's what it's called?" she asks genuinely, and he frowns as if she's making a joke. Surely she isn't serious.

It's about to hit nine, as the chatter in the room is still prominent, and Harry tears his eyes from his texting conversation with his mother at a slight nudging of his left shoulder as somebody moves past. 

"Is this seat taken?" the girl asks, and she doesn't seem to be paying much attention as she shuffles into the seat nonetheless.

"No," Harry replies with a small smile, "it isn't." He notices who it is beside him before the girl herself notices him, only looking up at the sound of his accent.

"Camera boy," she grins, finally looking at the boy beside her now. She's wearing pants in a culotte style, black with small white dots as a pattern on the fabric,  a black bandeau top, and a red denim jacket over the top. 

"Didn't we make it to first name basis?" he asks in a teasing manner. His shoulders are slightly tense, but he's easing into conversation a lot better than he usually does with strangers.

"Maybe," she shrugs, her grin refusing to shift as she points to Harry's camera, "but I think 'camera boy' suits you pretty well."

He drums his fingers on his knee, biting back a small smile while Sophie can't help but notice how his nose scrunches when he tries to stifle the emotion, as a bell sounds throughout the classroom and a man enters, with ginger hair and glasses very small for his face.

"Good morning, guys," the guy is very calm, and he speaks slowly and clearly, "I'm supposed to be Mr. Stevenson, but you can call me Michael, since.. like.. why wouldn't you call me Michael if it's my name?" There's a short laughter in response from the class, as he continues, "so. Let's bring you back to middle school for a sec, shall we? We're gonna go around the circle, and each of you will state your name and tell us a little bit about yourself, and we'll all pretend to care."

Oh no. This is Harry's worst nightmare. Since primary school and they would have to introduce themselves in the circle, and he would be taunted with 'gay boy' and mocked relentlessly when giving a fact such as his favourite band being Fleetwood Mac or his favourite colour being pink. He can't do it. He can't go through this all again.

The teacher is moving through the circle fast, and Harry can already feel his breath begin to hitch in his throat and his stomach tighten as he comes to Layla, and she answers with ease the short questions he fires at her.

"And you?"

The room falls silent, and Harry swears he can hear his heartbeat, and so can everybody else. He's sure his cheeks have flushed a horrific red, and his mouth is dry as all eyes fall on him.

"What's your name?" Michael presses gently, and Harry fidgets his fingers against his coffee cup.

"Harry Styles," he answers, hoping it'll be left at that. But it isn't.

"Where are you from, Harry Styles?" 

"Manchester," Harry swallows, "England."

"Across the pond," Michael drags out the word, sitting back in his chair. Harry expects him to move on now, having already spent far longer on him than he has on anybody else. But he isn't finished.

"What's your art, Harry?"

Harry's eyebrows furrow, and he purses his lips slightly. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? His art? What does that even mean?

"I-I don't underst-"

"What inspires you?"

Harry hesitates, running his thumb nervously over his coffee cup, "A lot of things, um," he trails off, "people."

"People?" Leave me alone, Harry thinks desperately. 

"People around me," he speaks slowly. "How they are, how they act. I like to just sit back and watch sometimes," his voice grows more quiet and he trails off even more as his sentence comes to an end. He swears he can hear a giggle in the corner of the room, but it's likely it was of his imagination, insecurity getting the best of him. He dares to look up, and thankfully nobody is staring. 

At last Michael moves onto Sophie, who responds with far more confidence than him.

"I'm Sophie Ashford," she begins, glancing at the boy beside her with her typical smile on her lips, "and I don't think my answer is as cool as Harry's."