heard your name in every love song {Ben Hardy}

2. how would you see me now I've grown up (given up my video games)

When you're fifteen, you have your first kiss on stage with a boy named Andrew; he's a year older than you, has been in more shows than you, and has a boyfriend, Jamie, though they both seem entirely endeared by you. You buy each other flowers on opening night, after becoming fast friends in rehearsals.

It's your first lead role on stage, though you've been in a few commercials in past year, and had callbacks for a bit part in two different TV shows that ended up going to someone else. Since expressing interest in pursuing acting as a career, your parents had been nothing but supportive, their only stipulation that you still need to finish high school. So between school and auditions and rehearsals, you don't have much time for crushes; sure there's a boy in the ensemble, who you're pretty sure is named Ashton, with fluffy blonde hair, and eyes that look green at the right angle, but he also lives off of Monster energy drink. He may be pretty, but he's got the personality of a damp rock.

But he's not your first kiss, Andrew is.

"You know Ashton's got three braincells in total, right?" Andrew's laying on the floor of your dressing room, makeup done, costume half on, watching in the mirror as you apply your foundation, "what do you see in him?"

"Him-" you started, but Andrew groaned loudly.

"Himbos need to respect women, Y/N, Ashton is not a himbo," though at his exasperation, you can't help but be amused.

"He's pretty," is all you can manage in your own defence, wearing a sheepish little smile, and Andrew wrinkles his nose. His phone goes off and he checks the message.

"Jamie's almost here," he told you with a slight smile, and you two share a fond smile. Jamie comes baring iced drinks and you both praise him as your lord and saviour.

"Do you think Ashton's cute?" Andrew asks as he's eating the whipped cream from the top of his iced coffee.

"Is this a test?" Jamie replies, wearing the slightest frown, but Andrew shakes his head.

"Y/N thinks he's cute, even though he's always three beats behind -"

"Whether or not he can dance doesn't effect how he looks!" You argued, and Andrew raised his nose in the air defiantly.

"It does to me," but then he's grinning, turning to gaze to Jamie, who's deliberating and swirling his peach iced tea with a faintly fond smile.

"The blonde one playing the jock?"

"That's him," Andrew confirms, and Jamie hums.

"He looks like acid wash jeans."

A confused silence follows.

"What does that mean?" You frown, but as Andrew considers it, he comes to agree, "okay, but do you think he's cute?"

"He's perfectly conventionally attractive," Jamie finally settles on, "but not my type." And he gives Andrew a coy smile, knocking their shoulders together, they're painfully endearing, but Jamie's brought up a thought that you hadn't wanted to consider.

When had your type become pretty, blonde boys?

Your answer comes less than three days later, on closing night, your mother's watching TV before she drives you to the theatre. It's Eastenders, a soap opera you know from your mother's fanaticism with it, aware only of it's longevity and it's sometimes outlandish moments.

"Y/N, come in here a moment," you mother calls, "they've recast Peter."

"You know I don't know who that is," you tell her with gentle exasperation, but obligingly join her in the living room.