A Moment in the Crowd

Chapter 18: Tabloids

Lily:

The day passes in a blurr, and I put the quick passing of time down to the fact that I woke up at 1:30 in the afternoon. I spend it mainly in a daze from yesterday, not knowing what to do with myself at all. I keep replaying the events, and imagining Harry's words again and again.

The thought crossed my mind to DM him on Twitter, but I held back because I didn't want to seem too much like a stalker. He already spent the day with me yesterday, and I know the tour schedule so I know that the boys will be on their way to New Jersey for the show tomorrow night.

It isn't until my mother calls me downstairs that I seem to snap out of my day-long daze. It must have been hours that I spent pacing in my room, going over every detail from yesterday.

I rush down the wooden stairs, careful not to fall since I'm wearing fluffy socks, and the dark wood isn't exactly kind to slipping. When I jump down to the last step my mom is sitting on the tan leather couch facing the TV, but instead her small laptop is open on the coffee table. I sit next to her and smile at her profile, but she doesn't face me to meet my gaze. I follow her eyes to the screen and my heart stops dead in its beating tracks.

The article that she has open on the screen shows the unmistakeable picture of myself and Harry when he pulled me out of the club's entrance. I look to see the headline of the article: Harry Styles caught with a bloodied girl on his arm exiting downtown Toronto's hottest club. 

My heart is pounding and I have no idea what the things in this article will say, but I'm too curious to protect myself from any harm that would come from reading it. I scan over every word the article says, and by the time I'm done I'm nearly sobbing.

My mother is holding me tight, but I don't want her to comfort me. She warned me and I can tell that she's thinking exactly that. I hate it when people see me crying, and I rush to my room before she can continue her pity sympathy.

When I reach my room, I close the white wooden door frame and lean against it for a moment. My mind is racing and I can't help but feel the pain in my chest from the horrible words of the article. They basically called me a whore without the actual use of the word. They don't even know who I am, they don't even have my fucking name, how can they possibly just assume that I'm some sort of fucked up prostitute provided for the rich and famous?

I can't stop myself from searching for the article on my own computer. It's not hard to find. All I do is type in Harry Styles to Google and it comes with the most recent news on him, which just so happens to be me. I read and re-read the dreaded fucking article. They say some things about Harry but most of it is concentrated on what a supposed whore I am.

I've heard celebrity after celebrity say that they don't listen or don't read any of the crappy articles online, or in magazines... fuck will this be in a magazine too? But I can't stop myself from reading whatever this horrible fucked up version of a journalist has decided to write about me. Who even is this person? They don't know a damned thing about me, not even my fucking name.

The sadness and emptiness that I feel from the harsh words of the article is quickly being replaced by anger, scorching hot and bubbling inside. I frantically search at the bottom of the page for a reference as to who could have written this pathetic excuse for a piece of writing.

I find the name, of course, and go to the search bar on Google to type it in. Alan Greenway. Who the fucking hell is this guy and what gives him the right to publish such bullshit about me? I desperately search for a way to get this asshole's e-mail so that somehow I can explain everything. If he knew the truth then he wouldn't have to write shit about me. 

But, what is the truth? What am I supposed to tell him, that Harry and I met that day and kissed but I have no fucking clue if he even thinks anything of me now? What can I tell this idiot of a journalist, if I don't even know what's going on? The anger is replaced by an intense defeat, and I slouch in my chair, letting the tears, halted by my brief spree of anger, pour down my face once again

I'm not a whore, I'm not a prostitute. I shouldn't care that anyone thinks I am, I should only care about the truth. No one who reads that shit is going to know the truth though, they're all going to think I'm just some stripper with a busted knee. Fuck, I didn't sign up for this. All I'd ever wanted was happiness, and here I am crying my eyes out. 

I need to stop crying, it's not worth it. I keep doubting that Harry and I will ever see each other again, and the feeling grows stronger and stronger as each painful second passes. If I'm just some piece of shit stripper slash prostitute to the media, then they'll never expect to see me around Harry again. Maybe that's the point of the article. Maybe the people protecting someone as important as Harry had to go and tell the fucking tabloids some bullshit story about me so that I wouldn't be a problem. Fuck if I know.  

Theory after theory of how all this could have happened spins in my head, and I unlock my phone to see millions of Twitter notifications. I numbly go to change the settings on them, making sure that every time I'm mentioned, retweeted, favourited, or even followed, the notification won't pop up on my damn lock screen. 

I go straight to Paola's messages next, and I find out that she's already seen the article. I shamelessly cry as I type my responses to her, letting her know that I'm not okay with it in reality. She instantly answers back and attempts to cheer me up. She curses out the fucking media, the tabloids, all the bullshit, just like I knew she would. It helps more than anything to read the kind things she writes to me, as well as the insults about the media.

My first ever tabloid shit and I'm a complete mess. I guess I should have prepared myself for this, expecting the harsh article to come eventually. I just didn't know it was going to be less than 24 hours after the event had even happened.

I feel strongest when I'm alone so it makes it a little easier to look myself in the mirror and wipe the tears that have stained my cheeks. My eyes are puffy, but I've cried enough times in my life to know that splashing my face with water will clear most of the swelling.

I scold myself for crying at all. This shit shouldn't bother me, especially since I knew it was coming. I sigh and make my way across the hall to the bathroom. I pass my sister's open door on the way and I pray she isn't going to ask me about it. I quickly walk passed her room without glancing to check if she's even in there, but the shadow out of the corner of my eye as I rush tells me that she is.

When I make it to the bathroom, I turn on the creaking sink and splash freezing cold water onto my sweaty face. The water feels good on my hot skin, so much so that I splash myself with it again, and again until I'm almost dripping wet. I use the towel to dry my face off, and once again stare at my reflection in the mirror. 

I don't know what possessed me to get myself into this shit. I know Harry Styles is dreamy, and fuck have I dreamed about kissing that boy a million times, but did I really have to get myself in so deep? 

I rush, almost jog, back to my room and close the door again. Checking my phone, I see the notification that says: "@Harry_Styles messaged you!" My heart pounds automatically at the sight of his name, and I swipe the notification so that it'll take me straight to the message.

When it pops up, my heart flutters and I can't help but forget the nagging pain of the article for a moment.

Lily, I hope you haven't seen it but there's a nasty article circling online. If you have then I hope you're alright. Please respond, H xx

The pounding in my chest falters every time I picture him writing the message, and I quickly type a response. I don't want him to think that I'm a mess at the first horrible lie the media makes up, but I also don't want him thinking that it hasn't bothered me at all. I settle on replying:

I did see the article, and I'm a little distressed by it, but I'm alright. Don't worry. How has the trip to New Jersey been? L xx

I copy the way he ends his message, not sure why I do but it feels right. I know that I had to get the attention off of me so I settle on asking him a question. Mainly though it ensures that he might actually respond to me again if I ask a question. 

I'm unable to over-think the message much further, as my mother shouts that dinner is ready.