The Switch (One Direction Fanfiction)

Chapter 3

Wake Up, Britain! Filming Studio, London; 8:26 am

Harry Styles, to be honest, has nothing to complain about when it comes to his life.

Sure, there are rules (he likes to break them), and schedules (which he occasionally ignores), and certain boundaries (but, really, they were made to be pushed), but personally, he saw none of them as deal-breakers. In fact, he found that none of the bad stuff fazed him at all, because he still had tons of cash, hot girls, and exclusive access to anywhere he wanted to go. And, to top it all off, he lived with his best friend in an all-expense paid flat that has its own gym and movie theatre, all thanks to the fact some girls liked his hair (and singing, he supposes) enough to vote him through the next round of a reality TV show that he wasn’t even suppose to get on, but was just too charming to let go. His life was fucking fantastic, thank you very much.

The only problem seemed to be that he is now Harry Miller.

And it’s completely fucked up.

Because although he isn’t a girl (or gay, despite some popular beliefs), he still seems to do all the same things that he guesses Sophia must do- Which includes yoga classes, and eating whole-organic food, and driving a freaking light blue Mini-Cooper, and reading… It’s all super nauseating, really, and he half expects that he’s going to start menstruating pretty soon.

(He has a mum and sister, and he knows how it works, thank you very much.)

Oh, and speaking of girly things, another problem is these fucking post-it notes that are literally like everywhere stating every possible little fact/reminder/appointment/contact that anyone would ever possibly need. Seriously, it’s like a- A- Post-it note factory blew up or something! They’re pink and blue and green and orange and yellow and- He. Can’t. Take. It.

That’s why he’s come to the conclusion its some sick, well-planned, tasteless joke.

Because fuck, he misses his Range Rover, and sleeping in, and his Boo Bear, and his other band mates, and banging girls, and he even sort of misses those creepy girls who walk around their flat complex all the time, cameras and cellphones in hand, looking like they’re ready to devour him…

Sadly (note the sarcasm), he ended up running too late for coffee run, so Emily had done that, and left him with the simple task of getting to the Wake Up, Britain! set before 8:30. Which he had managed to do, thank you very much, despite the fact that the directions on how to get to the studio were written on three, little, bright orange post-it notes on the front of ‘his’ MacBook Pro. And, he even managed to cuss only twice, just incase there were secret cameras filming him for some new segment that would possibly air along with the boys’ interview or something.

Harry arrives at the studio, and pulls into one of the spaces outside, finding that parking a smaller car was actually much easier than parking a larger one.

Imagine that.

He bumps his head getting out of the car (for the record, he said ‘fudging bit’, not whatever else it could possibly sound like), and hustles quickly into the TV studio, flashing some press pass thing that was in his wallet with his driver’s license. The kind security people point him up some stairs, and tell him to take a left when it comes to a hallway, then he’ll see the door. It’s weird on this side of things, because usually he’s being ushered places and doesn’t have to pay attention to directions, but, suddenly, he has to find his way around, and he feels like a small fish in a really, really big pond.

Regardless, he finds the room, and opens the door, only to find his four band mates laughing.

He knew it.