Exposure • h.s.

CHAPTER29.

I've never really thought about how I would die.

Death is not a thought that's ever held much space in my already overthinking mind. But when I have thought about it, I've always envisioned a gentle, peaceful exit, perhaps slipping away in my sleep, so I wouldn't even be aware of it.

Tonight, though, thoughts of death relentlessly intrude on my consciousness. They approach with the same inevitability as the annual arrival of Christmas.

Tonight, I'm thinking a lot about death, because it's looming right in front of me.

Me and Harry are about to die.

Harry revs the bike, and it roars like a beast beneath our heated bodies, slicing through the crisp evening air. It's going so fast that I can barely keep up - I'd guess it's hitting 150 mph, or at a speed that's so rapid I can't even put a number on it. Harry's body is warm, and I'm holding onto him for dear life, gripping his torso for comfort.

The city and its lights have become a mere blur around us. Neon signs from bars and stores flash by our faces as Harry, riding without a helmet, lets his slightly long hair fly in the wind.

"Jesus, Harry... please!" I yell, struggling to be heard over the engine's roar and the rush of the surroundings. Panic is consuming me.

Harry doesn't respond to my pleas.

Instead, he steals a quick glance in the mirror, as if trying to figure something out. He grips the motorcycle's throttle tightly, as if his life depends on it, and accelerates even more.

The bike gains even more speed, darting like a bullet.

"Those fucking bastards!" I hear him curse, and my eyes, tearing up from the wind's force, snap open. I tilt my head slightly backward - just a bit, to avoid losing our balance - and glimpse a car behind us.

A car is speeding toward us at full throttle.

A car full of paparazzi.

Now it makes sense why we're speeding so recklessly.

"Oh my God!" I exclaim as Harry continues our wild ride. The motorcycle glides through the city's streets, as if it could defy gravity and take flight over the roads of Los Angeles.

Ironically, I realize that I've only seen bits of Los Angeles in passing as I dash from place to place. Some places look vaguely familiar, but I couldn't pinpoint them exactly. Instead of embracing it as my new home, I view this city as a mere transit corridor.

The big, black car is closing in on us. We hear shouts coming from it and see the flashes of cameras, probably capturing my almost-bare butt as the wind persistently lifts my dress, and there's nothing I can do to keep it down.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, I spot men leaning out of the car's windows, presumably trying to capture the best of the cursed singer Harry Styles, the most controversial figure in the music world, now drenched in blood, and accompanied by his rumored new flame (that's me, apparently).

All of this coincides with his grand return to the entertainment scene after nearly a year of obscurity.

In a nutshell, they're trying to take photos that, if sold, could fetch them tens of thousands of dollars.

But all of this comes at the cost of our lives, as we're thrust into a dangerous gamble with death.

"Harry, stop!" I plead again, but he appears to ignore me. I clutch onto him even tighter, attempting to press my knees against the outside of his, as it feels like we might just take off.