°• 𝙰𝙻𝙱𝚄𝙼 𝙰𝚁𝚃 •°[ 𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 ]

Headspace 💫

ZAYN

"If you got time enough for me
Sing me a song and send me to sleep
Slip into my headspace while I dream
Spin me a yarn, wrap it up around me"

By the time I got home, I was completely and unapologetically knackered.

Physically, mentally, emotionally—every part of me was drained. I dropped my backpack near the door like it had personally offended me, kicked off my sandals into a pile of already-forgotten shoes, and sank into the couch with the weight of someone who had just come back from war. A war of mind-mapping, anxiety management, and trying not to make eye contact with a literal global phenomenon.

Because today wasn't just a normal workday. Today was the beginning of a six-month creative marathon—one that would end with the full promotional launch of Harry Styles' next album. The brief was huge: album cover, tour merch, posters, digital campaigns, a special-edition booklet, brand collaborations, limited-run vinyls—the works. It was the kind of job people dream of. A career-maker. A chance to put my mark on something seen around the world.

And yet, instead of riding the high of this opportunity, I'd spent most of the day hiding like a gremlin in the Columbia Records office kitchen, pretending to be fascinated by the coffee machine every time I thought Harry might be walking down the hallway.

Not exactly the image of artistic confidence.

Apparently, he had meetings scheduled after the one we'd both been in—at least three more hours' worth of them. Which meant I'd had to tiptoe around the building like I was playing a very unsexy version of hide and seek. Every time I heard footsteps, my body went stiff like a cartoon character trying not to be seen. I ducked behind cubicle partitions, stared extra hard at hallway artwork, and feigned extremely important conversations with no one on the other end of my phone.

It wasn't my proudest day.

The thing is—I trusted the team I was working with. I really did. These were people I'd collaborated with before. Talented. Dedicated. Fast, but thoughtful. We'd hit deadlines before, and I had no doubt we could hit them again. Six months was tight, but doable. That wasn't what had me in a knot.

What had me wound tighter than a badly coiled extension cord was the fact that I'd be brainstorming, presenting, and checking in with Harry throughout the entire process.

If he wasn't available, I'd be meeting with a creative rep of his—someone from his inner circle, probably one of those too-cool people with symmetrical faces and tote bags that said things like "Conceptualize with Intention." I was really hoping for the reps. I wanted them. I actively wished for them.

Because every time I was in the same room as him, I felt like my brain short-circuited and my skin turned inside out. I couldn't even look at him for too long without feeling like he was peering directly into my soul, scanning through all the layers I'd spent years building: the professionalism, the calm, the cool detached artist exterior.

And underneath all of that?

A fanboy. A big one.

The kind who, at sixteen, made a scrapbook of favorite lyrics. Who queued up on Tumblr at 2 a.m. to live-blog interviews. Who cried over performances of "Fine Line" like it was a religious experience. Who still had a playlist called "Soft Harry Moments" hidden in a private Spotify folder, thank you very much.

I had spent the majority of my adolescence wishing for this exact moment—to meet him, work with him, even just be near him. But now that I was here, really here, I couldn't stop acting like I was moments away from spontaneously combusting. I didn't even know what I was afraid of. Maybe it was the idea that he'd recognize it. That he'd look at me and instantly know—this one's a fan. This one's still got posters hidden in a drawer somewhere. This one once cried during the BBC Radio 1 Live Lounge set.

I mean, to be fair... that last one is universal. Right?

But I couldn't afford to think like that. I couldn't afford to spiral. Not when I had this opportunity in my hands. Not when my designs were going to be part of something this big. I told myself I'd get used to it. That I'd stop reacting like a Victorian poet fainting at the sight of beauty. That he was just a guy. An artist. A collaborator.

I told myself all of that, and yet...

As I lay in bed that night, hoodie still on, limbs heavy and brain buzzing, all I could think about was him. The way he carried himself. How attentive he was when people spoke. How he smiled when he saw the lyric tattooed on my wrist—like it actually meant something to him that it meant something to me.

And those eyes. Those ridiculous, unfairly green eyes.

I turned over onto my side, pulling the duvet over my head.

Nope.

No more thinking.

I wasn't going to spend the night obsessing over 25-year-old rock-pop icons with luscious hair, cinematic cheekbones, and dimples that looked like they were carved by soft light and warm laughter.

I was just going to go to bed.

Just.
Going.
To bed.

Please, God, let me be normal tomorrow.