Ever Since New York [h.s au]

01

I've tried writing our story before, but it felt wrong. Using our fame to create more fame and money. Until last week a reporter on the street asked me a question about me, not him. I realized in that moment that everyone knew him or at least the side he showed them, and only a sliver of me. I want people to know it all, coming from me. To have the world know that I am a person, and I am more than just him. You know his story, you know some of our story, now it's time for you to know my story.

I suppose the best place to start is the beginning. I sat cross-legged on a bar stool at Aurora; a glass of ice water, and a plate of fries kept my black moleskin journal company on the oak bar.

Nearly every Thursday night my freshman year was spent sitting on a barstool in Aurora. I preferred the nuance of a Thursday night at a dive bar compared to the weekend. Everything was more euphoric.

I was a sophomore now, I had more responsibilities. I dedicated one Thursday evening a month to Aurora, rather than all four. It was always the third Thursday of the month; open mic night.

Andrew's, the bartender - a man who could use a shower but all his customers were too afraid to tell him such truths - always told me who to look out for. On that perfectly comfortable October evening in LA, I found myself watching a boyband clumsily set themselves on stage.

There were five of them. Covered in tattoos that were overly exposed in their white muscle tanks and low cut shirts.

"Hey everyone, we're One Direction!" A raspy British voice announced.

I thought, perhaps One Direction was going to be the next Beatles.

I listened as one of them began strumming a guitar, the beat of the drums quickly followed. Soon, the raspy voice that introduced the band started singing: "Her name is Noel."

Five British boys wearing black skinny jeans and bandanas were performing a cover of the Wheatus's Teenage Dirtbag. I was shocked, to say the least.

I sipped on my ice water, admiring the ambiance of one particular band member. Besides his outfit, he looked like he belonged in the 70's. His long brown curly hair made him stand out against the other boys. He was standing front and center. When he finished the first verse I felt a sense of pride. Here was a boy who knew how to sing a proper song.

The other four boys joined in on the chorus, it was far more upbeat and remixed to sound like a pop song. Regardless of the changes, it was euphonious. They each took a verse, and I was impressed with all their voices, they knew how to sing. But there was something captivating about the one with long hair. Underneath his red flannel, he was wearing a plain black shirt, a gold cross necklace, and black skinny jeans with black boots.

Even when he wasn't singing, I was drawn to him. The long haired man was walking around the stage, bopping his head to the beat, and looked like he was enjoying himself. The other boys - although some were playing instruments that required them to stay stationary- were a little tense. I found them more awkward on the stage than anything else.

I laughed to myself when I realized they skipped an entire verse, granted it mentioned sensitive topics with our current world situation. It shouldn't have surprised me, the juxtaposition of their aesthetic with the song choice should have let me know immediately. There was something different about One Direction. They harmonized until the last few words, "No, she doesn't know what she's missin'."

The audience cheered, and I clapped along with them. When the applause ended, I began sipping my water through the red plastic straw. Waiting for their next cover.

"This one's an original, it's called Where Do Broken Hearts Go." The blonde boy, with from what I could tell, had no tattoos, spoke into his mic.

I nearly choked on my drink, in all the open mic Thursdays at Aurora no band ever placed an original song second in their set. Normally, they wanted to get more comfortable with the atmosphere and the stage. Understand their audience because they become vulnerable with their own work.