You're My Serendipity

Anti-Instagram

“And how exactly does that make you feel, Peyton?. 

The brunette beauty rolled her large brown eyes. It was her third physco-analysis that month, and yet Peyton found herself being asked the exact same questions each time. If her parents wanted to her pass, and be deemed “mentally stable” they perhaps they should have sent her to a different counsellor, rather than the same old women who appeared to spend all her fortunes on plastic surgery. 

It wasn’t as if Peyton Mayfair had anything against Doctor Witmore. Sure Peyton’s patience levels ran thin each second Debbie Witmore rambled on bullshit that Peyton really didn’t listen too, but Witmore was just doing her job – and Peyton respected her for that.

“I feel fine.” Peyton answered, lounging back in her seat in attempt to make herself at home.

Witmore could smell a lie from a mile away, specially if it came from Peyton Mayfair. Something about Peyton held a special place inside Doctor Witmore’s heart. The counsellor found some kind of attachment to each of her patients; maybe that’s why she was so good at what she did; because she actually cared.

Doctor Witmore quietly sighed under her breath, as she removed her prescription lenses off the bridge of her perfectly structured nose.

“Peyton.” She said kindly. “I cannot approve you unless I have probable cause to state that you are mentally stable.”

Mentally stable, Peyton hated that term more than anything in the world. ‘A state of well-being in which the individual realizes his or her own abilities, can cope with normal stresses of life, can work productively and fruitfully, and is able to make a contribution to his or her community’ – according to Google definitions. For years now the Mayfair’s have been pushing for their daughter to have the great ‘RELEASED DUE TO MENTAL STABILITY’ stamp on Peyton’s file; but they have always fallen short.

“We’ll try this again in a few weeks.” Witmore decided, setting her blue pen back on her wooden desk, and closing Peyton’s file with a disappointed look. “I can only help you, if you’re wiling to try.”

“I know.” Peyton responded shortly, “See you next week.”

Peyton quickly collected her black shoulder bag, and flung it over her small frame as her heeled boots clicked along the tiled floor in order to leave the large office, over-looking the beautiful city of London. Her dark brown hair bounced along the small of her back as she headed past the reception foyer, and down the stairs to the entrance in order to leave.

And that’s when in happened.

Overwhelmed with a familiar tingly sense in her nostrils, Peyton closed her eyes for a spilt second in order to allow herself a sneeze of relief, which ended in a simple misplacing of her feet and a small tumble in the strong arms of a stranger. The saviour of the day managed to catch her right before she hit the third step, which could have ended in a very embarrassing fall.

Her body froze momentarily in shell shock from the almost fall, and sudden impact of hitting the solid body who still maintained a solid grip on her. Peyton’s body immediately tensed once she felt the strong hands holding her by the waist, so close to his hard chest, which smelt of strong cologne and cigarettes. She wiggled her out of his grip, brushing her hair back into place, trying to maintain as much composer as possible. 

“You gotta be careful, sneezing kills more than shark attacks.” A thick Cheshire accent spoke.

The stranger had a thick hair of curled brown locks, pushed off his beautifully structured face in order for full visual of his emerald green eyes, soft beauty marks, and strong jaw line. His plump bubble gum pink lips were pursed in a cheeky grin, dimples poking out of his thin cheeks and a certain glimmer in his eyes almost caused Peyton’s knees to give way, yet again.

“Do you have any facts to prove your statement?” She challenged, pursing her red-tinted lips in question.

He merely laughed, throwing his head back and crossing his muscular arms around his body. “What’s your name?”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Peyton stated.

“You aren’t answering mine.” He challenged, throwing in a cheeky wink for good measure.

Peyton stared up at the stranger for a moment, raising a single eyebrow in amazement at his overly confident demeanour. “Peyton Mayfield.” She gave in.

The stranger reached down to grab Peyton’s small hand in his, giving it a friendly shake as he formally introduced himself. “Harry Styles.” He said simply, before dropping her hand and making his way up the staircase to the reception area.

Her eyebrows furrowed together as she watched ‘Harry Styles’ run up the staircase towards the reception.  She wanted to question why he was so persistent in knowing her name, and why he ran the second he found out. But by the way he jumped from conversation topics, to running half way up the stairs without looking back, she figured he was mentally ill; so she dropped it.

“And no, I don’t have facts.” Harry yelled from the top of the staircase, making strangers halt in their steps and stare up at him in confusion. “Sharks in London? You’re crazy.” He said cheekily, before running out of view. 

Peyton stood in the buildings foyer, a blank expression on her face as her eyes met with many strangers looking at her in confusion. She ducked her head with a grey beanie, and made her way out of the door before anyone could question whether she knew the mentally ill patient who was most likely months off his medication.

~

 She had been staring at her Apple Mac laptop for at least 10 minutes now, Facebook up and running ready for a stalking session. From the moment she was publicly embarrassed in the foyer of her counsellor’s office, her mind could not let the thoughts of the mysterious Harry Styles alone. There were so many questions that needed answering, where he came from, was her assumption correct in guessing he held a Cheshire accent, if he really was mentally ill or whether he was just very confident in his own skin; and Peyton knew Facebook would be the only way to let her mind at ease. 

Harry Styles she quickly typed into the search engine. Her results came up bleak, he definitely was not a 40+ man in Australia, with a profile picture of his dream car, and he most certainly did not come from Texas. Styles were not a common last name, Peyton thought Facebook would deliver all the answers for her, but she was sadly mistaken.

“It was a long shot.” She mumbled under her breath. “We wouldn’t even have any mutual friends.”

Closing her main stalking device, Peyton felt deflated – until, out of the corner of her eye she spotted her Apple iPhone, which possessed yet another helpful stalking stratagem; Instagram.

Her eyes beamed once she saw the familiar mop of messy curls in the annoyingly small circle area of Instragrams icon pictures. Harry Styles – 21, London was written in the small space for a short and sweet biography.

Scrolling through his 200+ photos, Peyton began to questioned Harry’s mental stability even further once she had clicked on a photo of his feet, clad in one white sock, and one black sock with the caption ‘I saw you kicking dirt in my eye’.

She found herself having a light hearted giggle at a few of his humorous snaps, especially the one of himself standing beside a brick wall, sporting a short sleeved black T-shirt, which showed off his ink stained skin. 

Once Peyton had realized she had gone back over 70 weeks of Harry’s Instagram history, she decided she’d better call it quits before she felt the need to admit herself in Stalkers Anonymous.

As Peyton scrolled back up to the very top of Harry’s account, preparing to click on the little arrow, which would take her back to the usual Instagram feed, every woman’s nightmare happened to the brunette beauty. In once spilt second, accidental fumble of the fingers, Peyton clicked ‘Follow’ .

Once the realization of her actions hit, Peyton began to panic. She tried to swiftly click unfollow, hoping the sudden change would be quick enough for Instagram to halt sending the notification to Harry’s phone, but she was sadly mistaken. Within seconds, she received her own notification;

 harrystyles started following you 

“I fucking hate Instagram.”