Matilda | Harry Styles

SEVENTEEN

I woke up to a firm knock on my hotel room door. I dragged my head from the pillow, hazed with confusion, before rolling over to reach for my phone from where I'd left it on the bedside table. I squinted, reading the time to be just before seven o'clock. It was a Sunday, and I was sure the rest of LA wouldn't have even begun to stir yet. The sun was already streaming through the hotel curtains, where I'd only half-drawn them in laziness the night before, and the room was beginning to warm under the light.

I exhaled, dropping my phone beside me and laying back on the mattress again, wrapping myself back in the covers. It was far too early for me to even consider moving, and I'd already decided on ignoring the knock on the door and allowing myself to drift off back to sleep. I was sure it must have been the housekeeping, seeking to get into my room to clean it, but I was also sure they'd go away upon realising the room was still occupied, eventually - I just didn't quite feel like alerting them to my presence, then  - after all, I hadn't actually gotten to bed until late into the evening, and even then, it had felt impossible to fall asleep.

I'd spent much of the previous evening in a trance - partially of envy, that he'd had so much more strength than I, to say what he was feeling, and the remainder; in a weird sort of elation. I hadn't felt that before; the flush of my cheeks as he confessed to being able to tie a tie, all along; the way I had to bite my lip forcefully back into my mouth to stifle the grin I felt threatening to spread as I followed him out of his dressing room as if nothing had even happened; when Stella and Ally joined us again, both of them ushering Harry away - our distance restored with him, as the world-famous megastar, and me, just his photographer - nobody knew a thing. Neither Ally nor Stella could've suspected anything - even when he turned back, to shoot me a final, mischievous glance, causing my stomach to flutter as he walked away from me. But that didn't matter, because he knew. I knew.

He won every award that he was nominated for. It could've been three, or it could've been four, I didn't really know. I lost count after the second time he rose from his chair, a humble smile upon his lips and a sheepish hand raking through his hair. The celebrities around us that I'd only ever seen on magazine covers before tonight rose in admiration each time, some of them shouting playful jeers about Harry stealing all of the awards from them, squeezing his shoulder in a respectful gesture as he'd make his way to and from the stage.

"Somehow," he'd murmured, lowering my camera with his fingertips from where I'd positioned it to capture him with his awards, once we'd arrived back into his dressing room. "This isn't even the best thing to happen tonight."

It felt like I was walking on air - and just for a moment, I wanted to relish in it. My mind hadn't even caught up with it all just yet - it felt like for once - just this once - things could be good. Harry was good. Harry was so, so good. 

Everything that had taken place over the past couple of weeks felt like events in the life of somebody else; like the experiences of a life that wasn't mine. I'd never have been able to picture myself in a position even close to this one; every single aspect of my situation felt surreal - I'd been unable to even comprehend my very presence on this tour - how on earth was I supposed to digest this? 

He'd practically spelt it out for me, but even then, I couldn't fully let myself believe it. He couldn't have been more abundantly clear, but even then, I found myself questioning if this was all somehow a huge misunderstanding that he wished he could go back on; a lapse in judgement, or an odd moment of spontaneity. But it wasn't - it was thoughtful, it was calculated, it was deliberate.

I could still feel how his fingertips had pushed into my hair, and his face had lowered to my own. I could still see the way his lips twitched into the most radiant of grins, a breathy, satisfied chuckle filling the space between us - that image had been burned into my mind from the second my head had hit the pillow that evening; I was sure it would be burned into it forever.