The carriage is half-empty when I get on the Central Line at Oxford Circus, and I'm grateful. It's been a long day. My head's pounding. All I want is to get back to my shitty Airbnb that I rent whilst working in the city 3 days a week. I slide into a seat, which is rare at 17:30 on a Tuesday, lean back, pop in my AirPods, and press play. I'm Just Looking by Stereophonics spills in, fresh from when I saw them a few weeks previously, and I smirk to myself—how fitting.
The city's humming louder than usual this week. Oasis. Wembley. It's all anyone can talk about. I'm buzzing, never been so excited for a set of gigs in my life. That is, maybe since High Flying Birds went on tour last. I've got a standing ticket for Saturday, and the following Sunday, I keep checking my Ticketmaster account like it's holy - to make sure they haven't been repossessed.
The train jerks to a stop at Bond Street. Where I change to the Jubilee line, ready for my train back to Kilburn. I take a seat in the first carriage and relax once again.
That's when I see him.
Leather jacket and aviators on, even down here in the yellow light of the brightly-lit Underground. He moves like someone used to people staring. He drops into the seat across from me, phone in hand, thumb scrolling with the same lazy confidence I've seen in footage a hundred times.
Noel fucking Gallagher.
I blink once. Twice. Try not to stare. But he feels it, somehow. Looks up. Catches me mid-glance.
I smile before I can stop myself. And I blush.
He lifts his chin in that slow, deliberate way. Then—nods to the empty seat beside him.
I leaned forward slightly. "You really are him, aren't you?"
"Depends who you think I am."
"You're Noel Gallagher."
"And if I say no?"
"I'll say you're shite at hiding."
He laughed—short, like it surprised him.
I then got up and moved over as we pulled into Baker Street.
"Didn't take you long," he says, voice low and bone-dry. "You lot never can resist, can you?"
"You lot?" I arch an eyebrow, sliding into the seat. "What, women? Fans? Attractive strangers on public transport?"
That gets a real smirk. "Pick one."
"I'll take all three," I say, crossing one leg over the other.
There's a pause. Not awkward. Heavy.
"You going to the gigs?" he asks eventually, looking straight ahead now.
"Saturday, and Sunday 3rd" I say. "Standing, and then seated."
"Dedicated."
"Desperate," I correct. "Although, I love High Flying Birds as much, seen you many times in the past few years."
He glances at me again. "How old are you?"
"Nineteen."
"Jesus," he mutters. "Nineteen."
"And?"
"Just..." He trails off. "Mad how fast it all goes. One minute you're Nineteen, the next you've got a bad knee and a fucking psychotic ex-wife." He says, clearly unimpressed.
"Well, to be fair," I deadpan. "You don't look too miserable.... Today"
He huffs a laugh. "I'm not."
There's silence again. A different kind.
