Being Told You're Beautiful

Almost. I said almost. As in; not quite.

ORITE LADS. This is just something small before the main chapter (hopefully soon!) is uploaded when I come up with it. Keep smiling!

-- SHORT FILLER --

It had been two weeks since that fateful phone call day. Well, that's what I had named it as. It was assonance. And kind of rhyme. And because of these exceptional English language persuasive techniques (see the jargon and alliteration there!) I am now going to refer to that day as the 'fateful phone call day', okay?

Sorted.

So, before I got sidetracked, I was talking about that fateful phone call day. And in those two weeks, things went back to normal. Except better. Because we talked on the phone almost everyday.

It almost became habit. Almost.

We never mentioned that day where I stood him up. Or, in my case, the day he learned how patience was a virtue.

I had almost forgotten about it, at least, it had been locked in the back if my mind, all nicely tucked away and not bothering me anymore.

Almost.

But Mr Niall Horan had other ideas. So he suggested meeting up. Again. This time though, he had obviously thought about it, as he made sure it was evening and that it was somewhere less public.

i.e. a park at ten o'clock at night.

I agreed reluctantly, it was still the school holidays.

I didn't really know how I felt about it.

Sometimes content. Sometimes shit-scared. Sometimes nervous. Sometimes fed up. And sometimes, almost, almost excited.

Almost.