Hello Stranger

There was something about bookstores. He didn't know what it was, but no matter which bookstore it was, in whichever country, continent, state, city, wherever, bookstores would be able to make him relaxed again, if he were stressed about something prior.

Harry Styles, one-fifths of the world's biggest boy band, actually (gasp) liked reading. Most times, when he got tired of painting on a smile for the paparazzi, or when he was feeling an array of emotions at the same time because of what the media had printed out about him and what people online were saying about him; he'd go to a bookstore.

Not just a bookstore, if he were to be honest. There's a particular one that he favoured, merely because it was a café and a bookstore combined. The place was always quiet with soft music playing – sometimes they were just instrumentals, but he enjoyed them, nonetheless. The people there were always oblivious to their surroundings, merely because they were all absorbed in the books that they were reading just like he would be once he'd picked up a book that caught his eye.

Because of tour and things, he didn't exactly have the time to relax and pick up a book – dedicate a good few hours to get through half the book, at least. But now that they were on break till their next tour, he was more than ready to turn himself into a semi-introvert. That was like him still going out with his mates every now and then, but also staying home or at the café, reading.

Semi-introvert. If that wasn't a thing then he's going to make it a thing.

Harry pushed on the glass door that led to the bookstore, the tiny bells hanging above it chiming as he did so. The only person to look up and acknowledge his presence with a nod and a quirk of the lip was the cashier – a male teenager, roughly the same age as he was with pierced ears, black hair and bright blue eyes. Looking more 'punk' than Harry would've expected someone working at a bookstore would be, to be honest.

But then again, who is he to judge?

He's a pop singer in an internationally known boy band, the 'womaniser' of the band and yet, there he was: using the bookstore-slash-café as a hideout just because he wanted to read without being bothered. Plus, reading at home wouldn't be as fun.

He moves towards the teen fiction novels section then, because he'd only just finished the first of the three Hunger Games books. His long fingers danced across the spines of the books that were neatly shelved – eyes scanning the author names as he looked for the book he wanted. His eyes travelled faster than his fingers did, so he didn't notice the sudden change from smooth plastic book spines, to a rougher one, before changing back into one of smooth plastic once again.

Harry halts, backtracking back to the rougher material. His brows furrow together as he notes the leather spine before tilting it out with his index finger.

His frown only deepens at the sight of the leather bound journal before him. Apart from looking slightly worn, something else stood out to him. It was a quote, written on the flap of the journal, the binding cutting through it mid-sentence.

Smile. Enjoy. Stop being so fucking uptight.

And there was a little cartoon dinosaur inked in the corner. Harry cracked a small grin at the sight of it, then he looked up – eyebrows back to their frown as he scanned the place, hoping to see if there was any distressed soul looking for their journal.

A journal was something incredibly personal; Harry reckoned if someone had misplaced it, they would be beyond panicking at the fact that they'd lost it. He would be, too, if he actually kept a journal filled with his most private and distressed thoughts that he would've never dared speak aloud.

No one seemed to be looking for something they'd misplaced. Then again, there was also a fair point that, judging by the handwriting on the cover, it was someone young. The only other people in the shop was an elderly couple, and a young man sat with papers spread out in front of him – more than likely studying and/or doing an assignment for school.

Harry bit on his bottom lip, "Sorry," he mumbles under his breath as he undoes the leather bindings, since he felt slightly better knowing that he'd sort of apologised for opening their journal before he even returned it back even though he was itching with curiosity to see what was inside.

The first couple of pages were torn out, he could see that much. There were the little leftovers from how the papers hadn't been torn off properly. Then on the first blank page was a drawing of Peter Pan and Wendy – Peter offering Wendy his hand whilst the words Run Away With Me were added below it.

Then there was a proper entry.

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hello.

my name is – wait, you know what? fuck this. fuck you. what force could've possibly compelled you to pick up this book? like, fuckin' hell, mate, now i've to actually write a paper because of you. or... you could just stop reading this right now, then i'd be free of writing a paper by saying that someone stole this. or that i lost it, forgot where i put it, maybe. and i'd also probably get a big, fat "i told you so" from my professor, so that would suck.

but then again, you're probably still reading because... curiosity. duh.

i'll start introducing myself, then. not really introducing-introducing myself, but more of like... letting you know what this whole thing's about.

it's simple. this is a project. it's basically about me trying to prove that two human beings can connect to each other without ever meeting and/or knowing who the other person is. i mean... i've made friends through tumblr and i'm pretty sure they don't even know my name or what i look like, but my professor doesn't accept that so i had to open my smart mouth and say that i'd write in a notebook/journal and leave it somewhere – hoping that someone would pick it up and write back.

(sorry if you got offended when i said fuck you. i don't mean that. although... if you're a fit bloke, then hey, open invitation to my bed right now ;) no. i'm kidding.)

the date as i'm writing this is 31st nov 1st december, in 2013. i'm really hoping that it's still 2013 when you pick this up and (hopefully) write back. this was slid in between a couple of fictional novels in a bookstore, in Central London. i'm assuming that that's where you picked this up from and where you currently are – eyes skimming over the words i write. probably questioning my sanity. probably looking over your shoulder, thinking that i might pop up at any moment. probably.

i would be doing that, too.

back to the point at hand. we're supposed to get to know each other, just by how we write. that's sort of the whole point of this project. i've to get to know you, and you've to get to know me – just through paper. though we might not admit it, all humans are actually really shallow people. we tend to float towards the ones we find good-looking enough to be friends with, and it's only later that we might start becoming friends with the ones we find "less attractive."

this whole letter exchanging (but not really) thing would go on for two weeks, from when you've replied. if you decide to reply. if you don't want to, then just leave this right where you found it and let someone else find it, and read it, and maybe write in the blank page preceding this.

for now... to whoever is about to write back: Hello Stranger. welcome to this journal, and welcome to what would (probably) be a weird two weeks of your life.

- stranger x

p.s.: leave this where you got it from, so that i can find it again. i know the people who work in the shop and they know what i'm doing with this project so they won't yell at you. if you wanna get this book from somewhere else afterwards, tell me where and i'll leave it there for you to find :)

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