fangirl | h.s

three

Harry

Carolina was absolutely wrong. She seemed so determined that I would completely forget about her. That I wouldn't even remember her name by the end of the week but my God, she was wrong.

The only thing I've thought about since that day is her short little french braids, and that beautiful smile of hers, or those pretty brown eyes. All of which are the cause of the quaking I feel in my chest when I think back to that day.

The last few nights consisted of laying in bed wondering why the hell I've spent so much time thinking about this little girl who was nothing more to me than a mere stranger. But I hated the idea of never seeing that sweet girl again and I knew well that if I tried denying it, I'd be lying to myself. It was blatantly obvious that she was different because out of all the fans I've met, not one of them have ever made me stop to look twice. They're never made me stare at them in awe because there was something undeniably alluring about their appearance. They've never made me feel light headed because they complimented me.

The fans always have the sweetest things to say, the ones who aren't screaming "Can I get a picture Harry?" or "I love you!" or even "Fuck me Harry," of course. Not that it bothered me much but it was quite annoying after a while, despite the fact that I love them all nonetheless.

My fans mean the world to me and I'd take a marriage proposal over a sign of disapproval any day. Sometimes I meet the sad fans, the ones who say the boys and I are the only positive things in their life. I always wonder, what's wrong with everything else? And I can't help but feel a deep sadness when I begin to imagine all the things that could possibly be the source of their misery.

There's always that overwhelming desire to make it better and make sure they know that they are loved, if not by the people at home, then by me because I appreciate them all more than they'll ever be able to know.

But Carolina, she was something else. She didn't seem sad, and she didn't say I was the only good thing in life, and she didn't cry or beg for a photo.

She seemed surprised by my actions. I don't know what possessed me to go and take her purse holding it open for her to take her phone out. It was almost as if we'd temporarily switched places, and I was the one asking for a photo. In fact I wish I could see it, the photo we had taken. I've tried looking for her on stupid social networking sites like Twitter, or Instagram. I even checked update accounts to see if I could find our photo, but nothing.

I concluded that she just hasn't posted any of the pictures we took that day, since it would've been all over the Internet, along with all the other photos I took with fans from that day and all this week.

In a way, I was kind of comforted by the thought of her keeping the picture to herself, or not wanting other people to know about it. Despite how desperately I wanted to see her face again, even better, the picture of us again, it still brought me joy that she could have been selfish and refrained from publicizing our photo.

All I could do was remember. I could just continue to think about how her small hands started shaking, while she tried to hold her phone still, to capture a good picture of us. Or how her phone had been wobbling so much that I couldn't help but laugh at her nervous actions. Or how she profusely apologized when she thought she'd done something wrong. Or how unbelievably stunning she was, just standing there in her yellow t-shirt, and the overalls that made her look much younger than she probably was.

She was strikingly beautiful, but she was undeniably adorable all at once. I didn't even try to hide the grin that was proven permanent as soon as she said those sweet words to me. I could recite them all word from word by now due to how many times I've repeated it inside my head before I fell asleep.