Hello Stranger

·
6/12/13

i'm sure you're not an 'average-looking rose'. pretty sure you're beautiful, because everyone's beautiful in their own way. and i reckon it'd be pretty weird if my sister and my mate were to start snogging in front of me. which is why i hope and pray every day they're together while i'm with them that they don't suddenly get horny and start to try and eat other's faces off.

i reckon i'd throw up if i ever had to witness that hahahaha

regarding your question... i don't know. i don't think i've got like one particular favourite band, you know? i just like a whole lot of different artists and bands. i like to put my itunes in charge whenever i've got to do house work or whatever. the playlist would start with the beatles, then it'd change to green day then ed sheeran and justin bieber comes on afterwards. my music taste is questionable, i know.

unashamed though.

why should i say i've got a 'guilty pleasure' when it's really just me liking something because i like it. you know what i mean? why should i deny myself something that i like just because it's supposedly not okay or not accepted to like by everyone else. like, fuck you. i'll listen to justin bieber if i want to. i'll dance around in my pants to selena gomez afterwards if that's what i want to do.

sorry. got a bit into that.

just makes me mad that people have got to refer to something as their 'guilty pleasure' when really there's nothing to feel guilty about liking. like it because you want to like it. don't give a shit about what anyone else thinks.

on that note, what's your 'guilty pleasure'? (i told you i want this to be a two-way thing, didn't i? hahaha)

– stranger (also the same one from before) x

p.s.: i'm out of town for the weekend (till the 8th, i think) so hold on to this for a couple of days. i think it's a bit selfish of me but idk i like this thing. don't really want any other random person picking this out of the tree hollow and replying to you and replacing me (even tho you don't even properly know me)

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If One Direction hadn't worked out, Harry reckoned that he'd probably never ever leave his little town to live in London, of all places. Everyone knows that London's a pretty pricey place to live in, but then again: he's in a world famous boy band. He's got more than enough money to be able to live in London and not cringe at every expensive thing he has to purchase.

He wakes up moderately early the next day, making sure that he's got everything packed before he's making his way out of the house. He takes a stroll to the park first, because he has to leave the journal there, and he does, then he's walking away. Almost wants to walk back, bring it with him so that no one else can accidentally pick up the journal and intercept his conversation (but not exactly?) with the stranger. Almost wants to just not drive home just so he can continue the little chat they had going on – but then he realises that he'd already promised his mum so he really shouldn't do that.

Harry uses some stray random, dried leaves that he's found, as well as a couple of twigs to sort of cover the journal. He just really doesn't want anyone else finding it and being a little nosy fucker and taking it with them.

Once he's pleased with how it's semi covered, he grins minutely and then he's making his way back to his flat to grab his bag and start his three hour drive home.

The three hour drive passes by moderately fast, mostly due to him singing along to whatever song decides to play on his radio and then pretending like he was yawning (and totally not belting his heart out) whenever he happens to get stuck in traffic and then the people in the car next to him turn to look at him.

If they're fans, they get all excited when they see that he's in the car next to theirs and he's flashing them a charming smile with a little wave and hoping to God that they didn't see him singing and dancing in his seat because he reckons he looks like he has to take a poo when he's doing that. If they saw him in action then... Goodbye, dignity.

Harry barely pulls up in front of his childhood home when the front door is being pulled open and then the dark-haired woman who always would be the most important woman in his life is walking towards his car with a massive grin on her pretty face. Harry steps out of the car, engulfing (quite literally – since he's, like, a giant) the smaller woman into a hug and just appreciating the fact that no matter what, hugs from his mum would make him feel a thousand times better.

"Hello my baby boy," she coos and Harry wants to protest, say he's not a baby, but he doesn't bother because he knows he'll just get the 'you could be fifty years old and you'll still be my baby boy' speech.

Harry only hugs her tighter, finally pulling back to place a kiss on her cheek. "You alri', mum?" He beams, dimples making their appearance.

"Yeah. And how are you, love?" She asks back, wrapping an arm around his waist once he comes back from getting his rucksack and he's wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

"I'm good, thanks," he smiles. "Are Gem and Robin home?"

Anne shakes her head, "Robin's at work and Gem's gone for a meal with her mates." Harry pouts his bottom lip and Anne laughs, "Am I not enough for you?"

His face breaks out into a grin then as he shakes his head, "'Course you are," he chuckles.

"Tea?"

"Yes please," Harry replies politely, going to set his rucksack in his old bedroom. His bedroom is exactly as he left it. He'd told his mum that she could redecorate it and use it as a guest room if she wanted but she'd simply said that no matter what, this was still his home. His room was still his room, and would probably always would be because she's his son and home is home. Makes him happy, knowing that if the world and everyone he knows ever turns their back on him, his mum would still stand by him – strong and proud.

He makes his way down again, after he's shed his other layers till he's left in only a t-shirt with cuffed sleeves and his bag's in his bedroom. His mum's still making waiting for the water to boil when he enters the kitchen so he slides onto the stool, arms propped up on the marble counter as he watches her get out the mugs and tea bags.

Anne joins him once she's done preparing two mugs of tea, handing one over to him before she's settling onto the stool next to him. He mumbles a 'thank you' then he's taking a sip of the hot tea and letting the liquid slide down his throat. Anne's got her body turned towards him so once he swallows the tea, he's turning to look at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" He asks through a laugh.

"There's something about you," she says, narrowing her eyes, cocking her head to the side a little.

He frowns, "There is?"

"You're hiding something," she accuses with a tiny smile. "What aren't you telling me, Harry Styles?"

"Nothing!" He laughs again. "Nothing's happened. There's nothing to hide!" (Save for the fact that he's probably getting attached to someone who he doesn't know from only a couple of letters/entries exchanged.)

"Is it a girl?" Anne just carries on teasing, still looking at her son with a narrowed gaze that has Harry shaking his head whilst still laughing.

"There's no one," he tells her, but she's still looking at him with the look. "I'm serious!"

"Is it a boy, then?"

"I'm not gay, mum," Harry snorts out through his laughter, shaking his head in amusement.

She shrugs a shoulder, taking a sip of her tea. "It could happen. I've had friends who only realise that they're gay when they're your age."

"I'm sure," he's amused now as he says this. Honestly, he's been on dates with so many different girls (and they're all publicised because paparazzi) and his mum's met a couple of his girlfriends before. And yet, there she was, casually asking him if he was a homosexual (or bisexual or pansexual).

"Could've fooled me," Anne's got a smirk on her lips now; one that Harry had definitely inherited from her.

"Mum!" Harry exclaims with another loud laugh.

"Really, love, look at your jeans. I reckon gays don't even use trousers as tight as yours."

"Oh my God."