Ghost Writer [Harry Styles][H.S. Fanfic]

4 - BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY

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(SUMMER 2016)

(SUNNY'S POV)

Trying to get to a damn coffee shop from a meeting that was only eight miles away is going to give me a fucking aneurysm. This traffic is ridiculous. I never had to deal with this amount of congestion in Kauai. Yeah, there were always vacationers, but they went home after a week. There's also no privacy where you live here unless you can afford to pay for it. And even then, those people who are lucky enough, they're usually hunted down by feral packs of wolves for the next major story headline.

Driving around LA in my baby blue 1973 Volks Wagon Thing gets me a lot of stares, considering most of the people I work with drive some fancy vehicle worth six figures. But she's my baby and I wouldn't trade her in for any classic sportscar or Range Rover if you paid me. I've always liked living a simple life where possessions don't define who you are. Sadly, this place thrives off of having the newest, most expensive brands of everything. That's how they define a good life. From what I've observed, anyway.

I miss my little sanctuary back home with a town full of close friends and a support system. I mattered there, and I was someone important. I was one of the lucky ones. Here? I'm alone in a sea of people. And in my opinion, that's the worst kind of loneliness. Because I feel as though I'm not even real. It's as if I'm on autopilot, coasting through life with no dream or destination.

I'm just a single cell that helps make up an entire body in this city. If I'm lost, no one even notices. New cells are created and replace the old like they never existed. Before, I was an organ or a limb. Something that somebody would miss when it's gone. And that's a hard pill to swallow—accepting that this is my life now—that I'm small—and that I'm insignificant.

Sometimes I really wish I didn't move here. Though, I kind of had no choice in the matter after everything that happened. I kept my house back on the island and paid Spike to take care of the place while I'm gone - for however long that may be. I just couldn't stand the pitying way people were looking at me anymore. Like I was broken and unfixable.

And maybe I was. But having the constant reminder that my life imploded and that I gave up on my dream was suffocating me. So, I needed to go. It won't be forever, but I need to get myself back on track. And I need to do it away from the life that I was supposed to have.

Once I finally find parking, I grab my journal from the front seat and hop out, reaching over the side of my car for my guitar and violin cases in the back seat. I didn't want to leave them in there since the top is down, and also because I will be walking to my job at the record store after I get my coffee. I am in desperate need of a caffeine buzz right now.

I pull my noise-canceling headphones over my ears and then pull out my phone to scroll through my emails, selecting the track I'll be working with. I was asked to write some lyrics for an artist that I had a meeting with earlier today.

I was messing around with a melody a couple of weeks ago in the record store when her manager came in and overheard it. He asked me to play him something that I've already finished, which was a ballad, of course. My favorite. He loved it and booked us some studio time to collaborate on what she was looking for.

As I walk down the block, I open my black leather journal, which is filled to the brim with sticky notes of ideas and random pages of sheet music. I scribble a few lines here and there as new bars from the intricate melody fill my ears. I glance up and my eyes zero in on the sign briefly for the Beachwood Café before resuming my writing as I continue on my short journey.