A Shot of Reality [Harry Styles]

XXIII. Native

A/N: This isn't edited, but I hope it suffices! I tried my best with the poem above, but don't murder me: I never said I was a poet. Enjoy and happy Thursday. x

August 11th, 2012

Amongst sweltering bodies and inner turmoil,

A girl saw a boy.

He was singing on stage, his head dipping back in pure love for the music

And the women surrounding him

But the love wasn’t her, and the women weren’t her either

A girl saw a boy

 
In a crowded room, amongst thousands of screams and blaring music

A boy saw a girl

She was still and sound, standing out of the crowd with her blue eyes

And disappointed smile

But she didn’t know the song was for her, and that his love was because of her

A boy saw a girl

 
But not enough to make “her,” her

 

If there was any city in the world that conveyed both indescribable disparity and unquenchable spirit in unison, that city would be called Detroit, Michigan.

Traveling on a ritzy tour bus on a beaten road, Harry Styles witnessed the cities distinct personality through his seated window. For every scorched and blackened house there was a neighbor mowing his fellow neighbor’s lawn. Or every hushed drug deal that occurred under a dingy streetlamp a good Samaritan protected the children who played pick-up games of basketball at the school next door.  It was this kind of place that Harry had always found himself both disgusted and fascinated; how can such beautiful and generous people inhabit a city so depressed and so broken in appearance?

One of those people was sleeping soundly in the seat right beside him, laying their head of long, brown locks against his shoulder. She donned a fuchsia set of athletic shorts, a loose cream tank and black flip flops and wore her standard diamond earrings she received for her twelfth birthday from her grandmother. Her and her grandmother, who lived in Detroit, hadn’t seen one another since she had moved across the Atlantic ten years prior.

Harry himself didn’t know a thing about this woman Sydney had talked so longingly and lovingly about but out of these conversations, he had gotten the following information; her name was Annette, she was seventy-five, she had possessed the same brilliant pools of blue eyes and dark hair and Sydney adored her as much as a person can possibly adore someone.

Because of this, Harry had talked to the boys who in turn talked to their tour manager who complied and managed to track down Annette’s address and squeeze in time to visit her at her home on 22 Mercy Boulevard. Once they received the information, they had called the number shown in the book and after four rings, Annette Morton had answered her telephone. Now, they could’ve easily gotten her address from Sydney but according to Harry’s orders, this trip was a “surprise gift” to her.

Besides this past month being heart wrenchingly terrible for his best friend, he knew that she had missed her roots as much as she liked to disguise it. He knew this from every sad smile she would wear when she put her earrings in, or the perkiness in her expression when the miles remaining till Detroit on the road signs dwindled.

The “gift” had evolved even more perfectly for when the tour bus halted quickly in front of Annette’s house, she did not stir one bit.

“Alright boys,” Harry whispered lowly as he inched out of his seat. “I told Annette we would arrive at 1:30 and its 1:26, so go knock on her door and she’ll let you in.”