Hello Stranger

Harry's having one of his off days.

Not off, like day off, because they're basically having a good few months worths' of day offs right now and he's not doing anything for him to be able to acquire a day off. But, like. A day in which he just wakes up feeling like complete shit and he doesn't even know why. He's telling himself things like he hasn't done anything with his life and how he's probably going to end up dying alone, sad and miserable, and he does not know why.

Because, like, to say that he hasn't done anything with his life would be the most blasphemed thing for him to ever say. Really. He's twenty – not even, actually – and he's in a world famous boy band and he's been to almost everywhere in the world, and their concerts get sold out in minutes and those aren't, like little places with a seating capacity of eight hundred people, or something. They're proper places that seat thousands and Harry is in that band that sold out those places – those entire tours – within a few minutes.

So he has most definitely done something with his life. That part he can completely discard. Ball that thought up and throw it in a metaphorical bin he's got in his mind.

The part about dying alone, sad and miserable. That one, though, – that one he can't really do anything about it.

Most of the time, when he gets like this, he's usually on tour so he'll be surrounded by the boys and like, the fans. And they'll go to sound-check and he'll see the lucky hundred or just over a hundred girls who've gotten special tickets that entitled them to watch the boys' sound-check, and he'll realise that he's being stupid because he's nineteen and there's still plenty of time for him to find a girl (or boy – times and preferences could change over time, who knows what would happen) and get married and stuff. He won't have to die alone, without ever having a hand to hold, or wondering if he was ever loved by anyone for being Harry Styles – the boy with the bad hair and used to work in a bakery and flirted with old ladies to get extra tips – and not for being the Harry Styles from One Direction, besides the boys and his family and few real friends.

Harry sighs, rolling over in bed and burying his face in his pillow. He's spent the day before with Lou and Tom and Lux, and he reckons that that's what brought on his depressing thoughts. Most of his emotions and/or thoughts depend on the things around him, really. Seeing Lou and Tom and Lux together, in their perfect little happy family image, it made him like this. Made him start thinking that he'll never get to find someone to be his Lou, and they'd never be able to create a Lux. Dumb logic, but it makes sense to him and basically, fuck any other input anyone else might've had, had he shared them with anyone else.

The curly-haired lad just sighs again, slowly heaving himself up into a seating position as he rubs at his eyes. The clock on his bedroom wall says that it's a quarter past ten at night. He'd been in bed all day, feeling sorry for himself. And he'd feel bad about it, but he really doesn't because he's allowed to have his bad days, yeah? He's allowed to want to curl up in bed and not do anything all day, especially when he's basically got nothing better to do, anyway.

His fingers curl around a glass of water and as he's taking a sip of the liquid, his eyes widen and he almost chokes on the water he's drinking. He forgot about his stranger. Setting down the glass and then practically leaping out of bed like the elegant motherfucker he isn't at all totally is, Harry pulls on a pair of skinnies over his boxer-briefs, an undershirt, a jumper, and then his coat thrown over that. His feet are shoved into worn Converse – Jesus, he hasn't worn Converse in years; forgot how fucking comfy they were – and then he's speed-walking out the door. Not like it makes a difference, since she's probably already thinking that he's completely forgot about her, which he kind of had for the day, and the journal's not going anywhere, but Harry feels bad.

It's like, making plans with a mate, only to forget about said plans till the last minute and ending up making them wait almost an hour before you actually show up.

Thank God it's still the twelfth, though. He'd written his entry on the tenth, so the eleventh would be hers, and it's still the twelfth now – so it's not that bad.

Harry reaches the park within twenty five minutes (because he may have stopped for a coffee and then realised that he needed to pop by the shop for cereal and milk along the way) and it's a real contrast as compared to how he was rushing earlier on. He gets there, anyway, a bag with a box of Cheerio's and Coco Pops each as well as milk in one hand, and a take-away cup filled with steaming hot coffee that burns his tongue in his other hand. The coffee's probably too hot for it to be enjoyable but it's really fucking cold out and the hot liquid sliding down his throat warms him up nicely.

The journal's sitting in it's usual spot – in the tree hollow.

He gets home faster than he takes to get to the park, and he's setting the things down in the kitchen before going into the lounge with coffee cup in hand and journal in the other. Harry's laptop is on the coffee table, too, since he knows that he's asked her for a playlist.

Music always distracts him from his shit thoughts. So he'll get twice the distraction now – from reading her entry, and from looking up the songs that she's compiled as her favourites.



11/12/13

look at that up there. that? that is a very nice date. can't happen anymore, after this year, because it'll be 2014 (wow that's scary to think about) and there's no thirteenth month.

it's the little things, really.

and you know what? i've decided that i like you. don't even know who you are, at all, but i like you. you're a lover, not a fighter, and i like that. you're kind of like me, in a way. it's a bit weird to say but you'd rather have two people arguing come to a compromise where they're both happy instead of letting one person win, right? because that's kind of person i am. sort of. i just like having everyone happy. i mean, i've a bit of a temper, though, but that's another thing and i've learned how to control it so we can forget that, right?

and, like. you're nice. you're just nice. some people are just too mean for their own good and they're rude and pretentious and are just plain assholes, and none of it's really appealing at all. but they think they're some kind of big fucks because they're rude and mean and act like dicks half the time they're alive. some people are just cowards, too, – like they use other people's genuine fears against them for their own amusement, say it's for a laugh, and then they get offended when those people get sick of their shit and call them out for it.

i hate those people. i really, really, really, really hate those people. i kind of hate people in general, too, because most of them are assholes, but then i remember that people like you exist – so that's very cool.

i mean, like. i'm not saying i haven't got any friends, yeah? i do. i have lots of friends. wow that sounds cocky. no, i mean like, i just have a lot of friends? literally. i have a few best mates and i'm just friends with a lot of people. like we could've been classmates who texted once in a while about homework or something in secondary school, and then they're texting me randomly again because they saw me and couldn't get my attention or something, and yeah.

does that make sense? i don't know. don't think it does, but whatever.

and well you wanted a playlist of my favourite songs... so here you go. fifteen of my favourite songs (plus the other three then it'll be eighteen, duh) and it's listed in no particular order so yeah. can't promise that you'll like them all but i love them so. yeah. and i'd just like to say that this is a mix of current favourite songs bc i literally cannot pick between all time favourite songs. like, at all. so listen, enjoy, and tell me your favourite out of my favourites bc that'd be cool to know.

1. lonesome road blues // joe bonamassa
2. holding on to you // twenty one pilots
3. stop this train // john mayer
4. kiss me // ed sheeran
5. perfect // hedley
6. adam's song // blink-182
7. hope // we came as romans
8. over me // go radio
9. weight // hands like houses
10. hospital for souls // bring me the horizon
11. second & sebring // of mice & men
12. bulls in the bronx // pierce the veil
13. therapy // all time low
14. someone, somewhere // asking alexandria
15. make it stop // rise against

my question for you... i don't know, really. i've run out of things to ask, too. a bit weird now. feels like we've been doing this for so long when it really hasn't been that long and we're both just uncreative with questions to ask the other hahaha

okay. i got it. what's your favourite lyric of all time? like the one line you heard and you just... fell in love. you know. that feeling. makes you feel thousands of different emotions at one go. what's that lyric?

– stranger x

p.s.: and just to fuck around with your emotions a bit, go listen to king park by la dispute. tell me if you cry bc lord knows i'm a fucking baby whenever i listen to that damn song.



Harry opens up the lid of his laptop, Youtube tab open in four different tabs and fingers poised above the keyboard as his green eyes dart back to the journal with the list of songs she's given him. His coffee's still unfinished and he's a bit hungry now, so as the songs load in the different tabs, he plays the first one – whilst carrying the laptop over to the kitchen and placing it on the counter while making himself a bowl of cereal. Lonesome Road Blues is a blues tune and it's something that he'd listen to, so he already knows that he's going to tell her that that's one of his favourites – even if is literally the first song. The twenty | one | pilots, John Mayer and Ed Sheeran songs are all massive tunes, and he's already expected them to be massive tunes because even though he'd never heard of twenty | one | pilots till she mentioned that one of her current favourites was by them, he'd become a fast fan, buying their album on iTunes.

And Harry spoons cereal into his mouth as he listens to the playlist she's written up for him. Some songs aren't his cup of tea – Hope is a bit too heavy for him and like, it's supposed to be a song with some kind of deep message behind it, probably, but Harry can't take it seriously when it legitimately sounds like the screamer/singer (fuck him if he knows if it's two different people or just one person) is saying 'meow' right at the beginning. He doesn't understand a word in Second & Sebring, apart from the clean vocals (and the bloke's got a nice voice, Harry kind of wishes he'd come sing Harry to sleep sometime for when he's having bad days), and Bulls in the Bronx is sad as fuck and he likes it, but he doesn't like it at the same time.

The songs are good, though, and his stranger's right about King Park fucking around with his emotions because – Jesus Christ. He's had a song that's made him cry before but this is like. Wow. He's just eating cereal and he can't even enjoy the taste of his Coco Pops because there are silent tears slowly trailing down his cheeks. And, like, the song's actually not all fully sad, it's just. The singer's got such passion and emotion that it makes the listener feel what he's feeling and it just, – just fucks you up.

He decides to give the two 'heavier' songs he'd kind of disliked another try, pulling up lyrics in another tab. Harry's right about Hope having a message behind it. It's all about not giving up and things, and it's phrased in a way where you're about to give up, but they're edging you not to. Second & Sebring, on the other hand. That song actually makes him shed a tear or two whilst listening to the song again. It's about the singer/screamer's mother, how he's hoping she's proud of him, how he's thanking her for being a mum and taking care of him. And as his eyes skim through the rest of the lyrics, he understands that his mother's passed away and it makes him even more upset.

Harry hadn't listened to the song the whole way – he shut it off after a solid minute of screaming after the clean vocals – and now that he's reaching the end and the clean vocals have started again, his heart's clenching in a way that he never knew it would whilst just listening to a song. Because Harry would never know what to do with himself if he ever lost his mum and this bloke has and he "needs [her] love like a boy needs his mother's side" but he can't have it anymore because she's gone and.

Harry's figured out that people who write and listen to this genre of music isn't exactly for the happiest of teenagers/people in general.

He sniffles, hand going to wipe under his eyes as he downloads the song on iTunes, because now that he knows what's being sung/screamed, he's got a new appreciation for the song. Then the curly-haired lad is going back to the journal, picking up a pen and ready to write back. Tell her about the songs she's given him, and about King Park, indeed, fucking him up.

But there's another entry, and his brows furrow together for a moment. He flips back to his own entry, lips curling up into a small smile as he rereads what he's wrote before, and then he's going back to her entry.



so maybe i am a lost soul. aren't we all? we all wander the streets like we know what we're doing with our lives. we think we're so much better than everyone else, when we're not. we're all equals. i'm lost. i'm lost and alone and scared. but i'm also calm, because i've found a home. in the café. it's a place for people to go to, when they have nowhere to call home. it's somewhere you go to when you need to sit and think. it's somewhere you go to when you want to live an adventure through someone else's perspective. it's familiar. it's... home. then maybe, my stranger, you could be my home and i could be yours.



Harry smiles, thumb rubbing against the corner of the page. I'd really fucking like that.