Loving Niall Horan

Chapter 1

1. Hi

2. I am almost 500000% that nobody will ever read this

3. But just in case. This is my first story on Wattpad so please forgive the fact that I have no idea what I'm doing :\

4. I will be happy to answer any questions

5. Rated PG13 for adult language and mature themes

6. Oh and hah ignore my profile pic Wattpad won't let me change it *bawls*

7. Creds for the After reference goes to imaginator1D

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SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 13 (2014)

PASADENA, CA

Niall Fact #1: Dating a fan would be a bonus for Niall (as long as they didn't scream in his face)

"Emma! Your friend is here!" My mom shouts down the stairs to my room in the basement. I take one last glance at myself in the mirror, pushing back my dark brown, almost black hair and running up the stairs.

"You look very nice dear. Be careful." She warns, pulling me into a hug. I hurriedly pat her back.

"Mom, I'll be fine." I chuckle, reassuring her.

"You never know what kind of crazy people go to these concerts." She gives me a hard stare, her beautiful brown eyes boring into my grey-green ones. I hastily nod my head and run out the door, waving my hand behind me. I jump into the rosy red land rover waiting in my driveway. Once inside I reach over and squeeze my best friend Maddie.

"OMG I AM SO EXCITED!" She squeals. I laugh, knowing that I'm not half as excited as her. Don't get me wrong, I love One Direction. But I'm not like Maddie. I don't know every single thing about every one of them. I don't watch hours upon hours of music videos and interviews. I've only heard a couple of their songs. Nevertheless, I'm totally stoked about getting to sit in the third row! No, we didn't win anything. Before my father -erm- left... He had a fancy job doing something that left us with a lot of money. But I don't like thinking about our money as coming from him. My mom works her ass off to keep us living in Pasadena, which let me tell you, is quite expensive. Anyway, the government gives us money every year that he would've been making for us, and we spent almost all of this years to pay for Maddie and my birthday present. This. Now, my birthday actually isn't for two more weeks, when I'll finally be free and eighteen, though I still have to finish senior year.

"And it's Niall's birthday! I can't believe he's 21!

"Beer anyone?" I ask sarcastically, pulling out my phone as Shandra, Maddie's mom, pulls out of my driveway.

"He's been able to drink since he was 18 silly. He lives in Ireland remember?"

"How could I forget?" I laugh, remembering all the millions of times she's mentioned it. But nothing compares to how much I've heard about Harry Styles. Constantly. Harry this, Harry that. Honestly, I didn't mind that much, but it does get a bit infuriating after a while.

"Oh so you know that fanfic I, reading, After?" Maddie squeals hopefully and I nod, clicking off my phone screen when I don't see any message notifications.

"You'll never guess what happened. So Tessa..." Maddie dives into her story and I zone out, not at all interested in the "rude boy with too many tattoos".

It's about 20 minutes from my house to the Rose Bowl. Then, we would be waiting another 2 hours for the show to start, hopefully avoiding the worst of the traffic and crowds, though I highly doubted it. I brush my hands on my slightly ripped jeans, hoping it's not too casual, though I doubt anyone will notice what I'm wearing. I tug on the arms of the purple, teal, white and yellow flannel shirt I have tied around my waist and glance down at my teal tank top and white Vans. I start to worry that I've underdressed, or rather, overdressed, when I take a closer look at Maddie, who's wearing a black ultra-miniskirt and a floral crop top that shows off her flat stomach and skinny thighs. At least I curled my hair for once. It takes at least two hours to do, with this thick mop I have, though I get it thinned about every three months.

"And then they screamed at each other and it was sooo cute and then-what are you looking at?" Maddie interrupts my thoughts.

"Oh nothing, just kind of wondering how screaming at each other is labeled as romantic." I mock.

"Don't judge." She gives me a hard stare then plunges back into her story.

I envy her. Maddie. She's one of the most gorgeous people I know. Recently, we went to get interviews with the local acting and modeling agency together. She got signed as a model, and they basically told me I wasn't pretty enough, or tall enough. Apparently 5'1" isn't good enough for them. I did get signed as an actress, but I was thoroughly offended.

I take another glance at Maddie as she plows through her story. Her shoulder length blonde hair is slightly waved, with a flower clip pinning back the bangs she's trying to grow out. She's wearing a very light layer of foundation, with black mascara and eyeliner, making her eyes pop. Her cheeks are rosy red and her lips a dark pink. All in all, she looks amazing. I'm just wearing a light layer of mascara, preferring the natural look.

Apparently Maddie believes I'm just listening, because she doesn't question my staring at her. A pang of self-consciousness enters me, but I shove it away. I glance at the scars on my wrist. I do not want to go down that path again. I am beautiful. I am talented. Loved and worth it. I am beautiful. I am talented. Loved and worth it. I recall the words of my therapist from years ago.

"It's all in your head Emma. You're the only person that can save you."

And I did. I saved myself. I clawed my way out of the water and onto a boat, or more like solid land. I no longer wake up wishing I didn't, or think about taking a blade to my skin. Those days are over, and I want to keep it that way.

Until a couple years ago, I battled with depression since a shockingly young age. I hadn't felt happiness for eight years. My mother came home from work one day when I was seven to tell me that her and my father were getting a divorce. My heart was utterly shattered. At the time, I didn't know what that feeling was. I just told my parents that it hurt, and would point to my chest. Only now I know that that was sadness. Things were looking up when I met Anne. My dad's know girlfriend. From the moment he told me about her, I loathed her. How dare she take the place of my loving mother?

That all changed. When I first saw her, she intimidated me. Tall, with wavy black hair, tan skin and dark brown eyes, she had a beauty unlike anything I'd ever seen before. She seemed much too perfect for my dad. Until I got to know her. Never have a known a kinder, more considerate, fun, loving, and slightly immature woman. Her face would light up like a child every time she kissed my dad. She asked my permission before hand even, considerate of my feelings. I said yes of course. At this point I loved her more then anyone else in the whole world, even my own mother and father.

She taught me to sing and play the guitar, to act. We spent countless hours together, me making her feel younger (though she was still in her twenties), and her making me feel older. Anne and I were inseparable.

At least I thought we were.

I was eleven when I got the news that changed my life forever. Cancer. Mesothelioma at it's worst, eating away inside her and growing tumors the size of footballs. She was rushed out to New York for cancer chemo, that quickly stopped working.

And that's when he got worse. My father. Never went a day without a smoke. A drink. A handful of pills. He wasn't himself. Yelling and throwing things became normal. Hitting. To this day I still wake up screaming, thinking that his hateful fist will collide with my face. And Anne took care of us. Protected us from him, taking the worst of the blows, though she was already dying inside. He still loved us. I know. But he... They were lost, and I was living with cancer and drugs.

She died on Christmas Day. The worst day of my life. I ran up the stairs, at twelve, ready to see stacks of presents under the tree, but instead I saw my crying father, ambulances, and the dead body of Anne. My mother. My best friend. My inseparable companion.

He left me six months later. Suicide. Overdose. The perfect escape. I tried to follow in his footsteps when I was 14. I mean, what's the point of living when you're not good enough to keep your own father alive? No matter how much I hated him, it still hurt. Still hurts.

But I'm better now. This isn't some sob story about my suicide attempts and self harm. No.

This is a story about love.