Everything - Larry Stylinson

THREE: SO I

The following week passes by in a similar blur. Gwen goes radio silent for 5 days, which isn't that out of character, but it forces me to go out with a different assortment of people that I don't like as much. Sorry, if that's mean. Whatever. The thing about Gwen is she's a mystery of her own, she doesn't talk about herself, she doesn't show off, she doesn't drunk cry and make it everybody's problem. With her, it doesn't matter what incredible fantasy the room has about me because I'm too absorbed in piecing her together to notice.

In fact, last week she had vomited hard off a balcony, so much so she was wheezing and falling to her knees. She's sitting there, flailing about in fetus position with sick shooting out her nose, choking on the night's air. But then, after 5 minutes she wiped her face and smiled, reassuring me she was ready for another round. She's fast paced and energized and everything you could ever want in a party partner. She's never asking to come home with me, she's never attempting to make plans the next morning, and I appreciate that.

Her only problem is she goes on timely escapades where I can't reach her and I am stuck doing nothing but waiting around for her return. I've tried imaging what she is off doing: Vacations with rich men and their yachts. Photoshoots and shopping sprees. Benders with someone else who is as infatuated with her as I am. It all feels stupid though, trying to fill in the gaps with my own imagination, and the fact that Gwen seems not to do that is exactly what I appreciate about her. I try to do it as little as possible.

She's not the type of person you expect to miss. She's not warm, or stable, no promise of sweet texts during the day and picnic lunches. But her presence across a packed room serves as a small beacon of familiarity that glows and glows until the party is lit up with her presence. Gwen doesn't believe in continuity, and I guess, neither do I.

I was rummaging through the kitchen, the oven clock's displaying 1:42 AM in a fluorescent green. I haven't had a normal sleep schedule in years. It was impossible with the band—press all day, concerts at night, barely any time to breathe in between. The shows were fun, additive, I'd jump around and wave to girls having the best day of their life, letting adrenaline burn through me like petrol. By the end of it, my entire body would be screaming, my nerve endings sparking and pulsing. When I'd walk off stage, pulling out my ear pieces, it would be as if I was hit with a tidal wave of oxygen my lungs didn't know how to handle. I'd have to regain by bearing on reality, drinking in the solid ground beneath me. With my ears still ringing, my lips still plastered into a smile, we'd load onto a bus, or a plane, and ship off to the next city. It would take me hours to come down from that high.

The press wasn't always bad, either. Actually, it used to be really fun. The five of us found ways to mess with everyone, bringing ourselves to tears as we launched into inside jokes and ridiculous answers. I usually did interviews with him. Him and Niall. It wasn't my choice, but I couldn't complain. With Niall, it was loud, chaotic energy; we'd jump into bits that had us yelling over each other, getting shushed from behind the cameras. We'd see our team, in their stupid black outfits, swiping their hands across their necks, signaling x's with their arms, it made it all funnier. And back then we could ignore them. Back then, we'd mess around until it got close enough to be bad, and then always simmer down before anyone could get too mad. We respected them.

With him, it was different. He was softer than I'd ever seen him before, careful with his words, always glancing over at me for reassurance after each answer. He'd laugh quietly at my jokes, that small smile that felt like it was just for me. And under the table, his thumb would find my knee, tracing small circles, grounding me in a way only he could.

Those first two years were like that—a whirlwind of noise and lights and little stolen moments in between, where everything felt easy, it was supposed to be that way forever.