boston {h.s.}

zéro.

Dear Reader,

The best way I can think to begin is by explaining my Golden Rule.

As an English fanatic I, of course, slipped in something that only a fellow English scholar would notice: the subtle switch between the Golden Rule and my Golden Rule. Of course everyone is familiar with the Golden Rule: treat others the way that you, yourself, would like to be treated. From a young age, this adage is incessantly imposed on all from a young age. School ages; no classroom is complete without a poster insisting on such ideals. Of course, this is a statement that I can make with confidence and certainty; one of those very posters sits proudly above my desk.

I'm not naïve. I know you didn't come here for me. You came here to read the story of my entanglement with Harry Styles; the story that I regrettably have to inform you from the beginning has no easy and happy ending. Not for all of the parties interested.

But still, his story and those associated—our story, my brother's story, the team's story, et cetera—are so ineffably fascinating, I know that you will be unable to stop yourself from reading; unable to turn away. Or at least, so I hope. That is a feeling I am well familiar with. I myself was brought under his charm. Recently I've come to hate the expression that it was like a car crash—that it was impossible to look away—but, that seems to be the best way to describe the events that have transpired since my meeting him.

He is like a car crash and it is impossible to look away.

Mesmerizing as he is, I myself am filled only with literature theories and fallacies, employed by interests of putting this story to paper. Each word, chosen carefully with a certain tact. For example: for those of you who know the way that the story ends won't miss the irony included from the beginning. For those fortunate enough to go in blind I give you an open invitation to turn back here at the end and laugh at my blatantly careless hand—the one that was insistent on telling you from the beginning: you will find no convenient ending here.

So, I bring myself back to my intentional mentioning of my Golden Rule. Set by the terms of my older—by fifty-four minutes, though, nevertheless older—brother, my Golden Rule is simple, particularly because I am not the one that has to upkeep it. The rule has been set for me, surrounding me like the halo that he, correctly, believes I have: I am off limits. Off limits to his friends that he brings around our shared apartment. Off limits to the interviewers that hang around, snooping for some dirt on one of Boston's most promising upcoming athletes. Off limits to his teammates that have come to look at me as a sister in their own way.

And, most certainly, off limits to one Harry Styles.

I know the pain of knowing how a story ends before it begins. Though, maybe I don't. From the moment I first looked at him, I knew that I was in for a ride, only, I didn't know that we would run out of gas on an abandoned road. I know the urge to turn away now before you get hurt—before the intensity of the attraction seeps in and settles. I know the pain of being like a drunk moth drawn to a flame, unable to turn regardless of how strong the urge is. To that, I raise: sometimes, the feeling of pain is the best of all, for it ensures that there was something sweet, now absent.

Read, or don't. Love, or don't. But, I'm done staying quiet. I'm done reading the speculation on our behalf. After long conversations with all involved parties, I've finally decided that it is best that I share my story, once and for all.

With love and gratitude,

Margeaux Beauchamp