Between The Lines (Larry)

Chapter one - The Beginning

first of all i just want to say not everything is accurate to real life like how the band started and what not so just because i have written it doesn't mean it's correct also english is not my first language so sorry if i spell things incorrectly

We had just signed with Syco Records—Simon Cowell's label—after placing third on The X Factor. Somehow, against all odds, I was in a real-life band. I glanced around at the others: Harry, Niall, Liam, Zayn. Five strangers who'd been thrown together under spotlights, with no real idea what lay ahead.

The boardroom was pristine, polished, corporate. A few months ago, I'd never have dreamed I'd be sitting here, talking business with Simon Cowell. None of us belonged in this sterile room in our jeans and hoodies. We fidgeted, exchanging glances that held a mix of excitement and apprehension. We'd been through the chaos of The X Factor together—rehearsals, performances, sleepless nights—but all of that hadn't prepared us for this.

We didn't know what to expect, not really. I guess I'd hoped that being a signed band might feel different. More like... ours. But now that we were here, waiting for Simon to tell us his vision for our future, that sense of ownership felt flimsy, like something that could slip through our fingers any second.

"I have a lot of songs written," Zayn said, breaking the silence. He spoke quietly, like he wasn't sure it was even his place to say this. He reached into his backpack, pulling out a black notebook he always kept close, and slid it across the table toward Simon. "You could read them... maybe use some for the album."

Simon gave Zayn a look that was hard to read, one that somehow seemed both curious and dismissive. He picked up the notebook and started flipping through the pages slowly, his expression blank. The room grew still, the quiet pressing in as we waited, each of us holding our breath. I'd seen some of Zayn's lyrics before; they were good, raw and real. It was like he was sharing some secret part of himself every time he showed us a piece of his work.

Finally, Simon closed the notebook with a soft thud and slid it back across the table. "Well..." He paused, watching Zayn with an almost clinical gaze. "It's good."

Zayn's face faltered, his cheeks coloring as he searched Simon's expression for some hint of approval. He wasn't about to get it.

"But," Simon continued, his tone cool, dismissive, "it's just not... what I see for the band."

I felt the words hang there, heavy and flat, and I glanced around at the others, catching the same mix of frustration and confusion in their faces. Zayn sat back, his hand still on the edge of the notebook as if he wasn't sure whether to snatch it back or push it forward again.

"What is the band going for, then?" I heard myself ask, surprised at the strength of my own voice. The others looked at me, and I could feel their quiet support—even if they didn't say anything, we were all wondering the same thing.

Simon sighed, as if he were explaining something painfully obvious. He reached under the table and lifted out a stack of binders, each labeled with One Direction in neat block letters. "Here are some songs I've already chosen for the album," he said, handing one to each of us. "This is the style I see for One Direction. Don't you agree?"

The binders felt heavy in my hands, almost too heavy, like they were weighted with everything we didn't want. I looked over at Harry, who was staring at his binder with a furrowed brow. He glanced at me, frowning, then at Simon.

"I thought... we'd get to write the music?" Harry asked slowly, hesitant, his voice soft but earnest. "It's our band, isn't it?"

Simon's mouth tightened. He was clearly growing impatient, but he kept his tone level, as if he were explaining something to a group of stubborn children. "Of course, it's your band," he said with a tight smile. "But the first album is important. Very important. These songs... they're the right fit. They'll sell. Once you've got a bit more experience and you've made a name for yourselves, we can look at adding your original material."

I tried to nod, though it didn't feel right. Logically, it made sense. He knew the industry, and he was supposed to know what worked. But looking down at the binder, it felt like someone else's words were being forced into our mouths. Across from me, Zayn was flipping through the pages of his binder, his expression growing darker with every song.

Finally, he looked up, eyes hard. "I don't think it's good," he said bluntly, his voice flat and without apology. "I wouldn't listen to these songs in a million years."

Simon's expression turned frosty, the thin line of his mouth tightening even further. A cold silence stretched between them, and I could feel the tension rise in the room. I felt like I should be saying something—anything—to ease the friction, but I stayed silent, waiting to see what would happen.  I agreed with Zayn, but it didn't feel like the kind of thing you could just say out loud. We were here in Syco's fancy boardroom, under the contract we'd all been desperate to sign.

Simon's mouth tightened, his gaze never leaving Zayn. "Zayn," he said slowly, his voice colder now, "I understand that you might not listen to these songs. But we aren't making music for you. We're making it for young fans, fans who will buy your albums and follow you wherever you go." He let the words hang for a moment, letting them sink in. "And if you're unhappy with that, you're welcome to go off on your own and release music that suits your taste. But I promise you, no one will be listening. Meanwhile, the rest of the boys... well, they'll have fans everywhere."

The silence that followed was thick, awkward. I glanced over at Harry, who was staring at Simon with wide eyes, his lips pressed together, holding back something—whether it was laughter or frustration, I couldn't tell. He made a face, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head in an exaggerated way that looked just like Simon. Despite myself, a laugh burst out before I could stop it.

Harry's look of exaggerated sympathy spread like a spark. Louis started to laugh, then Niall, and pretty soon even Zayn was grinning, though his cheeks were still red. Simon sat there, watching us with a faint look of irritation, until finally he stood, pushing his chair back so abruptly that it scraped against the floor.

"Learn the lyrics," he snapped, his tone clipped and sharp. "And if any of you manage to write something actually good, feel free to send it to me." With a final, irritated glance, he turned and left the room, the door closing with a heavy, resounding slam that left the air feeling strangely empty.

For a moment, none of us said anything. I looked down at the binder in my hands, my fingers tracing the smooth edge of the paper, thinking of all the songs we'd never get a chance to try out. Zayn still sat there, the faintest hint of a frown creasing his forehead, as though he was trying to work something out.

Niall finally broke the silence, leaning over to pat Zayn's shoulder. "Don't worry about it, mate," he said, offering a small smile. "Your songs are good. Simon just... doesn't get it."

Zayn nodded slowly, though he still looked somewhere else, maybe at something that wasn't even in the room. "Yeah," he murmured. "I just... I thought we'd get a little more of a say."

Harry sighed, glancing down at his binder with a quiet resignation. "Guess we just pretend to like it," he said, flipping the page as though he were going through the motions. "Isn't that what we signed up for?"

There wasn't much else to say after that, so we all sat there in the quiet, letting the weight of it settle in. We'd signed on the dotted line, and for now, that meant we weren't in control. Maybe one day we'd be able to do it our way, but that day felt far off, like something vague and impossible. For now, we'd just have to go along with it.