Thursday 20th May

So Harry is going out with Megan Crossland. Can you believe it? Exactly how and when this happened I'm not sure, and whilst we are on the subject, just who is Megan Crossland anyway?

Oh how my stomach churned as they lounged, arms wrapped about each other like two fornicating slugs, in the Common Room at lunchtime. It got worse; taking my seat at the lunch table, I could see that they were snogging. Eww. What sort of person is she to snog him so freely, in public, and in the daytime too? It's not like we were at a nightclub.

God he was so smug afterwards, I couldn't help but snarl when I heard him telling Louis and Niall about their trip to the cinema last night. Apparently things had got so heated that her glasses had steamed up. What a tramp! Doesn't he realise that not everyone wants to hear the intimate details of his pathetic pursuit of some random female?

'It's only a matter of time until we do it. My time is coming boys. She's gagging for it.'

There, I knew it, that it was all just a pretence, and really he's still the same vile, vulgar cretin he's always been. I almost marched right over to tell Megan exactly what he was saying about her. I might not like her but she deserves to know what a wretch he really is, and if she knew the truth then I sincerely doubt that Harry Styles will be getting in there with anyone but himself!

Saturday 5th July

Oh yet another Saturday night, where once more I find myself strangled within the vortex of another emotionally charged dilemma. Oh for the quiet life, but really, what a terrible cliché I have become.

Without even so much as making the slightest of efforts, here I find myself, conforming to these so stifling social rules which dictate being sixteen, my subconscious guiding me to a place where weekends are spent listening to mucky boys, singing rubbish songs in grotty pubs, but the worst part is, dragging me head first in to a complicated, frustrated collision with a member of the opposite sex.

Harry sat lonely amongst the frayed edges of a battered leather booth, his head dangling like a desperate rock tied to a tormenting piece of string.

We'd barely spoken to each other since he caught me playing pool with Zayn, and I still hadn't forgiven him for the diatribe he'd said about Megan.

'Where's your girlfriend?' I snapped, perching at the end of the booth.

'Don't know.' His eyes closed and his body swayed from side to side.

'How much have you had to drink?' He was clutching a tumbler bearing the remnants of what looked like urine.

'Don't know.'

'Are you going to say anything other than "don't know", or should I leave you alone?'

'Do you know how hard it is to love someone who doesn't love you?' Here we go, pass the sick bucket.

'Probably.'

'It's just this girl I know, she's wonderful and I love her.'

'Love her?' Well that seems a bit extreme.

'But I don't stand a chance; she's out of my league.' Talk about dramatic.

'Are you trying to tell me that you're in love with Megan, because you've barely been going out with her for a week?'

'It's not that I even need to have sex with her. I just want to be with her.'

'But I thought that you were desperate to do it with Megan?'

'It's just lies Simone, it's all for show. I'm not in love with Megan.' I wish he would make his mind up.

'Then who are you in love with? It better not be Eleanor Baxter, or I'll never speak to you again. It's her isn't it; that's why you are always complaining about her, because secretly you want to marry her?'

'I'd rather drive a screwdriver in to my eye than touch Eleanor Baxter. I'm always complaining about her because her voice sounds like a flock geese being run over by a steamroller.'

'Oh.' I guess the aggressive banter which he and Eleanor enjoy isn't part of an elaborate love-hate mind game after all.

'Then it must be Megan. You don't know any other girls.'

'I wish it could be that easy. I mean Megan's an amazing kisser; oh and gorgeous.'

'She's not that gorgeous,' I defended.

'Is it Natasha?' She really was the only other girl I could think of that he'd spoken more than a grunt to.

'Harry, are you in love with Natasha?' Please, dear God, don't let it be Natasha, otherwise I will be the one driving a screwdriver in to my eye!

I looked over at Natasha who was making embarrassing disco moves on the dance floor, still persisting in waving Matt's none responsive arms in the air. Why can't she just accept that he doesn't want to dance and give the boy some peace?

'No,' he shook his head. Were his eyes watering? Now I know that I can be prone to sensitivity, but seriously, what can be so terrible that it would drive him to tears? Get a grip boy!

As he wiped away the now flowing tears his eyes rolled backwards, and with a swift plummet his head descended forwards, crashing hard onto the wooden table top. Hoping that it might dredge him back to consciousness, and being short on any other resuscitation technique, I continued to list the names of all the girls at Sixth Form who he could possibly be in love with, cataloguing them based on where they sat in the Common Room. What did he mean out of his league? What sort of rotten article could fail to appreciate how kind and clever Harry is?

Alas, it has happened. How can I have been so naïve, and for so long? I really am so wrapped up in my own self delusion that I'm unable to recognise real life as it happens. Harry Styles has just told me that he loves me.

My mouth now hanging wide reflects the shock of my frozen mind. Where has this conversation come from and for how long has he felt like this? Regardless of the answers, for they may never be known, what is truly terrifying isn't Harry's confession at all, it's my own reaction. For here I am, not the least bit angry about what he's just said. Where are you anger? I demand you to be felt, for you I can handle. What I can't deal with is this sickening sensation, lying warm in my chest; damn you happiness, be forbidden! How can it be that Harry's feelings might actually be reciprocated by my own?

'Are you coming?' Liam interrupted these most important thoughts. How does he always seem to time his appearance with my most crucial points of self discovery, always corrupting my already unsure mind with his judemental view point? 'They're locking up the pub, so I'll take you home. What's happened to him?' He nodded towards Harry.

'Too much to drink.' Had he really drunk too much, or had his body, as an emergency defence mechanism, forced his mind in to lock down, to offer protection against the shock of his escalating feelings and their resulting confession?

'He looks a real mess.'

'He's just a bit emotional.'

'Really Simone, I don't know why you hang around with him. You could do so much better. You need someone with a bit of maturity.'

'Don't say that about him, he's supposed to be your friend.' But what if he's right? I mean it really wouldn't be surprising if Harry started being all ugly and annoying again. Maybe I should focus my efforts on finding someone with a bit more of a sophisticated taste, for hanging around in sweaty watering holes, drinking fluorescent coloured alcoholic beverages, really isn't a very mature way to spend a Saturday night. Oh how I loathe to admit it, but Liam does seem to know my tastes very well indeed.

Sunday 6th July

Distracted by the contemplation of what Harry told me last night, I've spent today trying and failing to complete my English coursework. It's just that writing one thousand words about the sisterly courage displayed in Little Women is so direly dull when compared with thinking about the delicious delights of that most sincere compliment, the most exquisite words that anyone has ever said to me.

But then, be banished horrible thoughts; for I'm sucked back under, drowning within Liam's counterargument, some small part of my mind forever unable to ignore him. Because Liam Payne understands everything, and so why would he be wrong about this? What am I talking about? He might be able to solve a quadratic equation on the back of his hand, but that does NOT mean he has any appreciation or insight of who I should or should not go out with.

Good grief what have I just said, I'm talking about going out with Harry, like it's an actual real possibility. Have I really been avoiding it all along? Is my mind really capable of such trickery? I must be crazy, for even entertaining such a scenario is surely indicative of a serious brain pathology? I mean what would we talk about, what would we do? We don't have a thing in common; the fact that Harry wants to spend all his free time in Penny's Arcade shows that.

Plus the idea of kissing him again, when it's already been terrible twice before, why would it be any different on a third occasion? And I can't have a boyfriend who I don't dream to kiss; I mean I thought that was the whole point of them? And Natasha, think about her and how she still secretly dreams of marrying Harry. Oh sod her, since when has she ever given a hoot about my feelings? But then there's Mother, what would she think? I still can't shake her comments about the colour of Harry's shirts, and how he isn't able to open a bottle without assistance.

My thoughts propelled me long in to the night, assessing each of the various scenarios and outcomes, but still unable to reach that desperately searched for answer. Yet one fate is already assured; for these muddied waters that our friendship is now sailing through means that it is now unavoidable; we must agree to either fight on together, to dredge ourselves out of this mess, or forever be damned to sink within the quagmire.