Far Too Many Good Intentions. (Harry Styles)

How'd we get so far from the sun?

Needless to say, the eight hour flight from O'Hare to Heathrow was a nightmare. When I finally stumbled out into the terminal and straight to baggage claim, I was absolutely shattered.

Making my way to a taxi, I shielded my eyes against the sun, mentally cursing myself for packing my sunglasses away in my suitcase. I noticed it was considerably more chilly here, and goosebumps rose on my skin as I flagged down the nearest car.

"Hello, miss, where ya headed?" the driver's thick accent threw me off for a moment, and it finally sunk in that I was actually here.

"Ummm, the West Inn on 6th Avenue?" I checked my directions nervously.

He nodded with a smile. "I know just the place! Welcome to London, by the way."

I thanked him, and hopped in the back after putting my things in the trunk. I already knew I'd love it here. The city from the backseat of a taxi was scenically beautiful, especially in this late afternoon sun. I found myself gawking at all of it.

When we arrived, I was restless. I needed to walk. So when I walked up to the counter and asked for a room, I was extremely distracted. "Um, I need a single for about...two weeks? Is that allowed?" I laughed, but the man behind the front desk was not amused.

"Yes, that is allowed. What will I be billing the room under?"

I handed him my mother's credit card, almost smirking to myself. She deserved to know I was unhappy with her. With all the money she had, it was the least I could do to take some of it off her hands.

The man handed me the keys with a sigh, and I thanked him. I promised myself to look for a job tomorrow. Once I opened the door to my quaint little room, I slung my things down. I looked around my surroundings, standing there in the middle of the room, and sighed.

"Well."

I checked the time: only four o'clock. Time to go explore. I smiled a little, pulling my favorite shirt out of the suitcase. It wasn't anything special, really. The fabric in tatters, the red and white of the stripes fading. It was one of the many items I had found in some secondhand flea market-type store, something my mother would've had a heart attack in.

The shirt was about a million years old and, frankly, a bit disgusting, but I think the reason I liked it so much was because she absolutely despised things like this. I was an abomination after all. I pulled the worn fabric over my head, and braided my hair messily to the side. The black skinny jeans I seemed to never take off would have to do.

Grabbing my phone, a jacket and my sunglasses, I made my way down to the lobby. As I walked into the late afternoon sun, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders; I was free. I slid the sunglasses over my eyes, and wandered down the busy sidewalk. London, I decided, was very similar to Chicago, aside from one thing: my witch of a mother. I smiled at that fact, and kept walking.

Well, I tried to keep walking, until I was forced out of the way, rather rudely, by a scary-looking preteen girl. I stared after her, scratching my head. I quickly realized as I turned around that there were quite a lot of little girls walking toward my direction at full force. They were almost like predatory animals, searching for something.

Now, usually, I would have found this situation absolutely hilarious. But as their numbers grew, I became more and more terrified. They looked for something obviously behind me. When one of them saw whatever it was they were looking for, she let out a deafening shriek.

And suddenly, I was being carried away in a sea of screaming girls. I fought my way to the nearest wall, and pushed myself in between the two buildings.

I was out of breath, and felt bruised. I leaned against the brick wall as I watched the mob of crazed teenagers stream past the narrow space I was hiding in. "Weird," I whispered under my breath as I checked to see if I was still in one piece.

All that I heard for the next two minutes was my own heavy breathing. After a while, I probably should've gotten up to get back to the hotel, but I was simply too tired to move.

"Have they gone?" a voice came from the shadows.

"JESUS CHRIST!" I whirled around to find a pitifully thin boy with an unruly mass of brown curls standing against the other wall.

"Sorry," the strange boy laughed. "I didn't mean to scare you."

I tried to regain my dignity, since the guy seemed to be reasonably normal, besides the fact he just appeared out of fucking nowhere.

"Why exactly are you hanging out in a dark alley?" I inquired, still trying to calm my startled heart.

"Why are you?" He countered.

I sighed, looking around my surroundings. "Good point."

Narrowing my eyes, I scrutinized him from my spot on the wall: Scuffed brown boots, jeans that were seemingly designer, and a Ralph Lauren button-up, covered by a slate grey blazer. This kid was clearly not poor or homeless, so what was he doing here?

"I was just trampled by a hundred screaming prepubescent girls," I told the well-dressed boy. "Care to explain?"

He shook his hair this way and that, flipping over to the side. "Well, technically, that whole thing was my fault," he smiled sheepishly, an English accent I couldn't place coming through in his words. "I was just trying to get a coffee. Louis told me not to go outside, but I didn't listen, obviously."

He laughed to himself, showing a set of bright white teeth. I furrowed my eyebrows, thoroughly confused by this strange, curly haired boy.

"Does this happen to you often, or?" I asked, and a hint of amusement reached his features.

He stepped a little closer to me and into the light, and I saw that his eyes were a startling shade of green. I decided I liked them. My stomach flipped when he smiled again.

"You mean, talking to pretty girls while hiding out in dark alleys? No, I can't say this happens frequently."

I blushed, despite the circumstances. "I mean the hoards of screaming scary people chasing after you," I pretended to ignore his compliment.

"You could say I'm a bit of a celebrity," he boasted, grinning. I raised my eyebrows, becoming a little skeptical.

"Oh really? Then why have I never heard of you?"

"We're not too popular in The States yet," he said, pointing out my American accent.

"I still don't believe you."

"Fine, watch this." He squeezed his head out of the tiny space, and almost immediately, a chorus of frantic screams came from the street.

He pulled his head back just in time before a wall of girls bombarded our little hideout. Hands and arms were grabbing everywhere, pressing into the space. I covered my ears, their screams almost deafening.

He gripped my wrist and pulled us further away from the opening, chucking. "Don't want to stand too close," He muttered. It took me a moment to notice he was laughing at my now petrified face. "See what I mean?"

"Who the hell are you?" I whispered, looking up at him incredulously.

He smiled cheekily, sticking his hand out. "Harry Styles, pleased to meet you."