Soon, My Friend (Currently Editing)

Am I sort of

I got stuck staring into the eyes of my reflection in the mirror after Harry left the room - realising how different I looked from before. It was like I could see a slight droop to my eyelids, and I remember thinking: "I'm having a stroke."

I was such an emotional and nervous wreck and I knew the best for me would be to just stay here, in the suite.

But it was my last night and I wanted to be with Harry as much as I could, even though that involved several staff members and the other lads as well.

I unpacked a little, added some more deodorant and a little perfume. I found some postcards I'd bought in my suitcase and reminded myself to write them before leaving.

I even opened one of Harry's bags, simply to help him a bit and being nice. I unzipped his suitcase; immediately taking notice of how my clothes were a jumbled mess whilst his was neatly folded.

I ended up smelling his black hoodie, wanting to fall on my knees and just jump back in time. I was holding his hoodie close to me, but already missed the smell of it, the scent of him.

He smelled like the sweetest sun cream, juniper and summer rain. And of home, but home as in not a place. It was in me.

Later the lads were in the middle of an interview and didn't notice my presence as I entered the conference room that was refurnished for the occasion.

A member of the staff gestured me towards a large and ghastly leather sofa against the wall behind them, and I sat down on it, curling my legs beneath me.

I couldn't quite take hold of what the boys were saying, they talked surprisingly quickly - even quicker than usual. The female reporter interviewing them now was young and all giddy, she spoke indistinct English.

However, it was seldom I heard: "Sorry, could you repeat that?" or something. I assumed that at this point they were used to anything but fluent English.

The reporter was replaced by another, these interviews kept going for about one hour. They had all probably been told to be quick, they got scarce ten minutes each.

The last reporter interviewing them - I guessed he was a thirty-something old man - had a hipster beard I overheard Zayn praise. He gave them all a handshake, introduced himself and sat down in the chair meant for him.

I'd brought my laptop and the postcards with me to pass time. First I wrote a card for Pete and mum, then one for Shannon. I also wrote for each of my grandmothers. Simple and cheap designs; the Eiffel Tower, Champs-Élysées, Notre Dame, Louvre.

The irony was that I was no longer in Paris, and that I would probably end up sending the postcards from the airport tomorrow.

Then I surfed the Internet. I read the news and I even dropped by this gossip site without thinking, scrolled down some headlines and that's when I came across a picture of me with the boys from Milan. It was taken at one time we'd met in a suite and had breakfast together - all gathered around one sofa.

Louis' drinking tea, OK, then it's definitely from Milan, 'cause he spilled the tea all over Niall's lap the second later, I reckoned mentally.

Harry looks mental. I actually look like Niall's companion, not Harry's, due to the arm he has around my shoulders. And why the fuck did I do that duck face?!

As I scrolled down the article, I read: "Check out One Direction on their Europe tour and Harry's gorgeous flirt Billie Hampton, in this very pic posted on Niall's Instagram. Niall, Louis, Liam, Zayn and Harry surround the blonde hottie and we've got details on Billarry's relationship."