Hearts Like Ours

It’s funny how life can change in a blink of an eye. One moment you’re meandering along, thinking everything is perfect, and the next you see a girl standing on a street corner, struggling with her umbrella as the drizzle begins to cling to her perfect curls, weighing them down. She huffs in frustration, but you pause to take in that moment, knowing she couldn’t look any more perfect than she does right then. And then this inexplicable force takes hold of your body, urging you forward, toward her, and your feet begin to move without your permission, and you’re suddenly standing there beside her, looking at her like an idiot and your eyes meet and you know things won’t ever be the same.

This isn’t how it happened to Harry. You see, sometimes things aren’t as simple as girls on a street corner. Sometimes girls on the street corner are actually impossible to know, impossible to reach, but you yearn for them anyway. You know they’re there. Or sometimes girls in the rain turn out to be journals on the street. And when you first see this journal on the street, you don’t realize it to be your girl struggling with her umbrella.

This is how it happened to Harry.

“You ready, mate?”

The question was simple, yet impossible to answer. Harry stood in a hotel lobby, two glass sliding doors standing between him and chaos. He could see his reflection in the perfectly clean glass, a boy with his hands shoved in his pockets and his hood pulled over his unkempt mess of curls. Beyond his reflection stood a hoard of security guards, and beyond that, thousands of screaming girls.

Was Harry ready? He couldn’t say for certain. A lump was stuck in his throat and he felt an unusual sensation of dread seeping through his body. The tour was almost over, which was something he repeated to himself every day, almost every hour. He was exhausted, ready to take time off to spend with his family and friends. He was ready for the season ahead where instead of identical shows, identical venues, identical setlists, identical faces on identical bodies of identical girls, he’d finally be able to breathe again.

He didn’t feel ready to walk into the chaos beyond those double glass doors. He didn’t feel ready to do yet another show on their nearly 7-month long tour. He didn’t feel ready to stick to a routine that meant so much to millions of fans, but little to him. And yet there was something pushing him forward, that little urge described earlier, pulling him out those doors toward something that would change him, whether he knew it or not.

Nodding his head, he sucked in a breath and found the courage to take his first step. He plastered on a smile, what everyone expected him to do, to hide his exhaustion. He stepped forward through those glass double doors to a thunderous roar of screaming fans, pushing against the security barricade surrounding him.

It wasn’t that he was unappreciative; quite the opposite, he knew how lucky he was to have the opportunity to go on tour, meet so many amazing people, see so many parts of the world, do what he loved to do. It was always the most difficult at the home stretch, the last few dates of the tour before freedom for at least another 6 months. He could hear it calling his name, beckoning him like a lover, but his feet were firmly rooted in place. It felt like quicksand. “The best way out is always through,” Robert Frost once said, which was something his mother liked to remind him when he felt homesick. True as it might be, he knew Frost had never been the most recognized pop star on the face of the planet.

He continued smiling as he walked, looking into the crowd like he was interested in connecting with each and every one of those girls. This was part of his job, something he usually enjoyed but was too tired to appreciate now. He did like connecting with people, which was probably why he was so good at what he did for a living. Always described as charming, Harry knew how to make someone feel comfortable talking to him, knew exactly how to connect in a way to make them want more. It was a talent he’d had since childhood, always appreciated by the masses.

It was as he was looking into the crowd, blinded by the camera flashes, that he stumbled and nearly lost his footing. He caught himself before completely losing balance and toppling over. Looking down for the culprit, his eyes landed on a deep purple leatherbound journal. Harry leaned down to pick it up, examining it.

“Does this belong to anyone?” he asked, looking up into the crowd.

The girls were too preoccupied with his proximity, begging for photos or signatures to notice what he was holding in his hand. He turned away, looking to his left where yet another crowd struggled with the barricades.

“Did someone drop this?” he asked again to no avail.

A member of his security detail urged him forward with a slight shove and Harry started moving again, journal in hand. Unsure of what to do with it, he tucked it in his jacket and kept moving toward the black SUV waiting to carry his bandmates and himself to a packed arena. Fluidly he slid into the car, moving to one of the back seats. The screams were muffled now, but girls were shoving against the windows, trying to see beyond the tint.

“That was crazy,” Louis said as he plopped down beside his best friend in the back seat.

“Insane,” Harry agreed as the other members of the band situated themselves in their seats. The doors slammed shut and the engine started, the driver honking in order to make a path to safely navigate through the sea of girls.

“Hey, it’ll be over before you know it,” Louis encouraged, recognizing the trace of detatched interest in Harry’s voice. Harry didn’t bother to make a reply, rather let his forehead fall against the window, closing his eyes. He’d already forgotten about the book in his jacket.