Bastille Imagines

Someone's Daughter Part 2

A/n: As promised! Also sorry if it's really long and boring I just needed to put it out there so it will probably be edited at one point. But annnyyyhhhooowwww I hope you enjoy it!

Step by step you drag yourself through the maze of London's streets, subconsciously humming that song again. It's not often that its absence occurs nor do those contagious words ever tire from your lips.

The concept of it all is just ingenuity. Not to mention scarily fitting. Oil on water: two substances that are famously known to separate due to different densities. Just like yourself and those men and the nights you forced yourself to endure just to relieve the overwhelming pressure of your impatient fans.

But you've changed. Your provocative ways have stayed in the past and you've started anew in the hope that it would lead you on to a better life. And it has. Although despite your determination to leave that all behind, you don't blame yourself for becoming nostalgic every now and again. You can't help to retain certain memories that linger in the depths of your mind and no matter how evocative you find yourself, there's always one chapter that satiates your reminiscent mind.

His.

Every memory of that night haunts your skin; the way he delicately brushed his slight fingers across your cheek as if, just for a moment, he actually cared about you. That was the only thing that separated him from the rest. He cared.

The only way you can relieve the insanity that misses every minute spent with him is to read the words you wrote fresh from that day. That's what you love: how raw the words are, noting down every specific detail of emotion that you felt at the time, allowing you to recreate that in an instance.

As well as permanently having that chapter as a reminder, you also like to keep tabs on him. Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, YouTube, anything that would allow you access to what he currently does with his life.

And how he's succeeded.

He's no longer the timid guy hiding behind his piano as he sings to a measly audience of 20 while his nerves eat away at him. Now he's performing sold out gigs in arena's with the capacity of 20,000 people night after night. And you're proud of him. Much more proud of him than you will ever be of yourself. Sure you've pulled through from what you thought, at the time, was an unbreakable addiction, but you could never forgive yourself for it. And, undoubtedly, neither would he.

~~~~

You finally reach work, unplugging your earphones from your ears as you enter your little office. For the first time in your life you've found yourself somewhere you never expected to be, or to be doing something that manifests your creative writing skills. You've reached that stage in your career where you can finally tell people you're happy. You can finally say to people that you've found pride in yourself for becoming a critic in the music industry. Having a way with emotive language, it isn't hard for you to manipulate your feelings and turn them into words which perfectly express exactly how you feel when you listen to the music flowing through your ears.

You've just recently finished your review on Bastille's second album and your boss immediately addresses your success. You spent hours editing and perfecting it, trying to find the words fitting enough that would convey just how good they really are. Okay now it may be a tad bias in that you personally know/knew the lead singer - albeit it was only a one time occurrence so it doesn't count - and that one of the songs was inspired by you, but you feel it's more of a duty than a charitable favour to make people aware that Wild World should be the album that everyone's listening to.