Remember Me [harry styles] ✓

3 - Live on tour

  "I always think about you and how we don't speak enough."  

Present day, Hisense Arena - Melbourne

It's far too hot in here.

Even for someone born and bred in Australia, it's still too hot.

I'm sandwiched between two girls I don't even know; their bare arms basically stuck to mine with an adhesive of sweat. And it's so loud. He's not even on stage yet and people are already screeching.

The support act feels like hours ago and there's a potent smell of b-o in the air. I can only imagine the volume of hormones compressed into this venue and I wrinkle my nose. If it wasn't for the fact that most of the crowd look about five years my junior, I might feel more comfortable. But then I remember the real reason why I'm here and am reminded that there's nothing comfortable about this at all.

I curl my fingers around the iron barrier in front of us and inhale deeply. Even breathing is a little tight up here. I'm still not entirely sure how I fought my way to the front quite so efficiently - but I did. And now his poster - illuminated on the wide screen overhead - is staring down at me, stirring the familiar ache in my chest. He's all powder-blue velvet with an expression that just oozes sex. He doesn't look even remotely the same but I can still see him in there, sort of.

Our friendship was built on a foundation of pen and paper and air mail stamps, but I still remember the time he video-called me. His hair was longer then, more tightly curled, and his jaw less chiselled; still hanging onto the roundness of childhood. He was all about Jack Wills hoodies and Supra hi-tops back then, not the flamboyant wardrobe he's practically renowned for today. It's almost like they're two completely different people.

Sometimes I refuse to believe that it's been eight years since I last heard from him. I often think of that last letter, stashed away in a cardboard box underneath my bed, the ink smudged from relentless tears and the edges crumpled from my strained grip. But the reminder is like a hot poker against my flesh. The reminder that I wasn't important enough to hold onto. Not important enough to be taken into his next chapter.

He never did tell me what the "exciting" thing was that his family had encouraged him to pursue. And he didn't need to either. It wasn't long before the whole world knew about One Direction. About Harry Styles.

Something slams into my back and I stumble forward, clashing against the railings with a loud huff escaping my lips. A quick, irritated glance over my left shoulder reveals a petite teen trying desperately to get a better look at the stage. But I'm not moving for anyone. Not today. If I'm doing this, then I'm doing it properly, and to do that I need to be right where he can see me.

I bought the ticket on a drunken whim; vodka & lemonade in one hand and credit card in the other. Drunk me clicked buy now and screamed "closure!" whereas sober me, painfully shy me and currently squashed in the front row me is thinking more along the lines of - what the hell have you done?

All I know is - now I'm here, there's no going back.

The screen suddenly changes. It's no longer Harry sprawled out in a pool of water, but instead an animation of his hands solving a Rubix Cube. The fans surrounding me are screaming again, chanting his name even, but I just stand there, baffled and feeling completely out of place. I haven't got a clue what any of this means. Nor have I given any thought as to what I'm actually going to do when Harry finally makes an appearance. Right now, I hate drunk me more than anything.

Right now, I wish I was drunk me.

Music starts and I snap my head up, a lump forming in my throat. The entire arena has gone wild and I can't even hear myself think. I cling onto the railing for dear life as every person in attendance seems to push forwards, pressing us all up against one another. It's an absolute hot mess but no one seems to mind. They're all staring ahead, wide eyed and brimming with excitement. The girl to my left is already sobbing and I'm about to ask her if she's alright when the stage lights up.

I blink, dazed and confused and feeling as though I've just been thrust into the spotlight, and squint at the scene emerging in front of me. I can just about make out the band; all dressed to the nines in an impressive array of patterns and fabrics. But my eyes can't seem to find him. The sixteen year old boy who never wrote back.

And then suddenly there's a flash of black and gold and I think I'm going to be sick.

He prances across the length of the stage, heeled loafers tapping with every step and his lips stretched broadly across his perfect teeth. He's practically glowing, revelling in the sight before him. The sobbing girl to my left is in absolute pieces, hands clawing at her own face as if she's evolving into some unsightly beast. I almost want to shuffle away but I can't risk losing my place.

Lyrics pour from his smiling mouth and the fans are screaming them along with him. I don't recognise any of them. I've not listened to a single one of his songs, more out of spite than anything else. He was never my boyfriend, we never even met. But six years of my life were spent exchanging letters with Harry Styles, the curly haired boy from the United Kingdom. The boy who wanted to know if I had a pet kangaroo.

And I knew it wasn't healthy to hold onto such a grudge for eight years. Eight long years. But I felt incomplete not knowing. Forever wondering. I just needed to know why?

Harry's free hand waves wildly in the air whilst the other clutches the microphone. He truly does look like he's having the time of his life and I almost want to forgive him there and then. But then I remember all the letters that never got answered. The Facebook friend that disappeared. And the poker burns my flesh again.

My knuckles are white from my grip on the iron bar and I press myself up onto my tiptoes. He will see me. I'll make sure of it.

He dances across the centre of the stage, gradually making his way to where I'm squished in, slightly over to the right hand side. He's practically skipping as he approaches, not a care in the world and my heart thuds erratically. Will he even recognise me? He never saw me in person, not properly, only through a poor quality web cam that one time.

And then his eyes pass over where I'm stood. It's only a fleeting glance, as if he's skimming his pupils over his audience. But they snap back. Back to me. His steps falter and his eyes widen; fanning out the long lashes that frame them. The girls surrounding me are snapping photos and waving furiously. I know what they'll tell their friends tomorrow - he was looking right at me! But I know I'm the intended recipient of this look.

My mouth seems to dry out almost instantly and I realise just how poorly I've thought this through. I got what I wanted - I've captured his attention. But now what? Now what huh, Juniper?

Despite having frozen to the spot, he's still singing. It's almost as if he's running on autopilot. His eyes - still wide - have not left my face and I know that my cheeks are burning a furious scarlet in response. It's not even like I can ask him the question that's sat precariously on the tip of my tongue; he'll never hear me and I'm not sure I want all these people to know anyway.

And then suddenly he's not in front of me any more. He's dancing away in the opposite direction; swaying to the beat of the music and wiggling his charcoal fingernails at the tear-streaked cheeks crying out for him.

And as I watch him turn his back on me for the second time, all I can think about are those three scribbled words:

"Stay tuned, ok?"

author's note: Would you believe me if I told you that I came up with this idea today? I literally got straight in from work and had to begin it immediately lol. Thank you to whoever is reading and please let me know what you think! :)