The Fangirl // Horan [temporarily on hold]

Chapter 3

Two more weeks passed before I saw Niall Horan again.

Well, no, I did see him. You could usually tell when he was coming because he was always surrounded by a large gaggle of squealing girls who giggled at everything he said and hung onto his arms.

I didn't see him, though, like see him properly.

But he clearly saw me.

***

Two weeks after the first time Niall showed up in my Pyschology class, I am standing in line in the Coffee Bean, the campus's coffee shop. I am almost at the back of the line, but I'm trying to will it forward, since my next class (American Literature) starts in twenty minutes and I like to get there at least five minutes early.

I have tried to go unnoticed in Pyschology ever since one of my five idols showed up in that class. I try to get into the classroom only just on time, and leave the second the lecture is over. I always sit in the back right corner, scribbling notes and trying not to look at Niall, which is extremely hard.

Once in Psychology, I walked into the classroom only to find that he was already there. I ducked my head and scuttled to my seat, but when I had sat down and made the mistake of glancing up again, he was looking at me. I think I went the colour of a tomato, there or thereabouts. I averted my gaze at once.

The line in the Coffee Bean inches forwards. I take a step.

I never actually go to the Coffee Bean for coffee. They have a Slurpee machine behind the counter, and I like the strawberry ones. So every day on the days I have American Lit, I go and get a Slurpee and drink it quickly before heading to class.

But today, I'm running late, and I'm seriously considering just forgetting the Slurpee and running across campus to class. The line only moves forward every two minutes or so, because every single other person in the line just seems to 'forget their purse' and stands there, batting their eyelashes and pretending to be embarrassed, until some boy decides to pay for them.

Oh, look at that. The barista just paid for that blonde girl with the clothes that could only really be described as scraps of fabric. Like, seriously, girl. It's nine forty in the morning. And it's cold. But on some decent clothing.

The only thing that keeps me entertained is seeing her legs go a blotchy red colour from the cold (I don't think the AC works in this coffee shop).

After another five minutes, I decide to leave. I've only moved forward like three feet,

I turn, not thinking about whether anyone is behind me, and crash straight into a wall.

At least, it feels like a wall. But when I look up, I realise that it's actually someone in a red tshirt.

And can you guess who that someone is?

Yep. You got it in one.

"Hey, sorry," Niall Horan smiles down at me. Jesus, he's like a foot taller than me.

"Oh," I squeak.

Oh, for fuck's sake. Cue the mental facepalm.

"Oh, God, I mean," I stammer. "I'm sorry, I just..." Just.

"No, it's okay," he says. "Propably should have moved back a bit."

He's right, he is awfully close.

I mean, not that I'm complaining or anything.

But still.

"Right, well, I, um..."

"You don't have to look so afraid, you know," he assures me. "I don't bite, don't worry."

"You don't bite," I repeat.