I loathe humidity with a passion. But I waited 12 hours in the heat of the day to spend an hour with you. Irony? Not so. God, was I ridiculously dressed in deep blue-turquoise clothing, head to toe, all for the belief in the previous night’s Google searches: “Colours that attract Aquarius men.” Scrolling through Aquarius-Cancer astrological love compatibility sites, and horoscope readings. Even if there were simply no odds of that “us” I have always longed for, I would rather lie to myself than get to grips with truth.

I remember standing right by the barricade, gripping tightly onto the metal bars, grounding myself. As you sang, your eyes locked with mine, sending a sizzle of pleasure to buzz through me. I remember relating that moment to “The Great Gig in the Sky” by Pink Floyd, where Clare Torry intensely wails and moans, “good expression of how I felt,” throughout the song. I hate humidity with a passion, but I stood there in a subtle trance, secretly enjoying how the abating heat of the night embraced me. It was magical.

I love you, I love you, I love you…God, I hate you so much. I hate how I wouldn’t mind sharing straws to drinks with you. (I’m saliva conscious.) I hate how I get jealous over hearing the slightest mention of your ex or news about you being seen with other women who are wealthy, grown, and full-busted. I hate how every song I listen to during every car ride has some element that reminds me of you…how all my daydreams belong to romantically cheesy imaginings of us.

You may never be my Jesse Katsopolis, nor will I ever be your rock & roll babe. The thought of never hearing you whisper lovingly, “Have mercy on me!” as I step out of a changing room, twirling in a pretty dress all ready for our date, saddens me. UGH.

I hate you, Harry Edward Styles, with so much love.

—By Tamara T., 15, Singapore