A Shot of Reality [Harry Styles]

XIV. Wither

A/N: Hello boys and girls! Here's the much anticipated fourteenth chapter, which I hope lives up to your expectations. Besides this, I have a few things to say.

One: This chapter, of course, has a dedication. And that dedication goes to my dearest rose AlexandraJoy. I could go on and on about her, but that itself would be a chapter :)

Two: I am going to my Dad's for spring break tomorrow, and am planning on getting back this Wednesday. But, I might stay longer so if I do, next chapter will unfortuantly be late. So sorry you guys xx

And Three: I will be posting a prolgue to my new story "Philosophy" tonight or tomorrow, and I'd love feedback on it. Whoever comments on the Prologue first will get a dedication for the next chapter of ASOR. + It's a Niall story, and it will be due out this Summer!

With that, I bid you a happy reading :) xx

April 10th, 2010

"Syd, I literally think I'm going to shit my pants."

A small giggle erupted from the other line, as a sixteen year old Harry nervously paced in various shapes from behind the X-Factor stage.

"Aw Harry! Not your good pants!" she cooed playfully.

"Not funny," he said while raking his eyes and running his hands over his outfit self-consciously.

He had made sure he dressed his best, wearing a light gray cardigan, the maroon scarf his sister had gotten him from her trip in India the summer previous and his lightly worn khakis. Besides his dressy attire, sweat seeped from his scalp dampening his brown curls and his hands clammed up his grip on the phone.

Harry Styles was a firm believer in fate and an even more avid believer that you only had one chance at achieving it. To him, this was his only shot at his prime dream: to sing. If he only received the minority of thumbs up from the judges, his dream would just be that: a dream. He would then follow the path of Law Enforcement for the remainder of his life, relishing in the wake of his fatal fantasy. Sure, it would suck and he'd feel shitty every day of his life for it, but like he said, fate was a matter of once and once only. If it didn't happen the first time, then it wasn't fate.

So here he was, standing and shaking behind the curtain as he heard the screams and claps of the audience when another contestant was put through and the silence and small cries of the hopeful when the judges had consecutively voted "no." His fate was divided evenly; a fifty percent chance he'd be applauded and be the happiest man walking on planet earth, or a fifty percent chance he'd resist the urge to break down in front of a silent audience of thousands and a sympathetic panel of celebrity judges.

"Harry, you have to calm down," Sydney's melodic voice rang throughout the speaker.

"-You have this in the bag, I promise."

"That's a risky promise there, Syd," he exasperated, flicking his fingers against the sticker of his number, specifically number 165998 against his white tee.

"Are you sure you want to make it?"

Silence plagued the phone call, before a sigh was sounded on her end as she spoke once more.

"Remember that Saturday night in your room? When you sang me that song you wrote?"

Harry's jittery movements suddenly ceased at the memory, at the song he had wrote for her to Sydney's oblivion.

"Yeah, of course I do."

"Well," she started. "-The look in your eyes while you were singing was pure passion. You were so into it Harry; so serious about the right notes you were to hit and the movements you made as you hit them. The emotions you put into that song were so remarkable and the love and enjoyment you had for it was obvious. Harry Edward Styles, you were born to do this."