Louis Tomlinson, a famous pop-singer obsessed with time, finds himself falling in love with newcomer Harry Styles at a party over the course of 28 minutes. (V long)
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6:00 PM
People soar around me and it takes everything I have not to push all of them out of my face. I sit in the back of a far too crowded room. White lights shine on the empty wall space between beautifully decorated frames with pictures of various events. Too many valleys and rivers and faces of laughing children hang on the walls that it looks almost cluttered. Not cluttered enough to be described cluttered, but cluttered enough for the careful eye to notice.
I don't know why I bothered coming. The white collared shirt I'm wearing underneath my black suit jacket chokes me, and not in a pleasing manner either. The tie that my girlfriend, Eleanor, tied digs like claws into the flesh of my neck. The black pressed trousers seem too tight and too loose all at the same time. The shoes seem to squish my toes in together, not enough for it to hurt, but enough for you to notice that something isn't quite right. My hair feels stiff on the top of my head and I'm sure that if I don't stop handing out polite smiles like it's Halloween candy then my cheeks will surely be sore tomorrow morning.
It's supposed to be a formal birthday party for some man with the last name of Rodgers. I have no recollection of ever knowing a Rodgers in my life at any point, but apparently, I've made enough of an impact to be invited.
I know, without having to know this Rodgers fellow, that he's not famous for being a performer. This would be an entirely different party if Rodgers were a singer or dancer or DJ or comedian or any other person that gets on a stage. No, Rodgers definitely is a behind-the-scenes man. A man that works with words and contracts and binds performers to the stages they perform on. A man that I, probably, despise.
"Louis, it wouldn't hurt to network a little," Eleanor hisses in my ear. Her voice buzzes and sends a shiver down my spine for all the wrong reasons. My body screams that I should run from the voice, but I sit perfectly still as I always do.
Network. It's always networking for her. Never socializing, never interacting, very specifically networking. Socializing doesn't get you contracts, or deals, or potential sets or stadiums to sell out. Interacting won't guarantee album buys or radio time or any of the other things that pay her bills. Networking does that and networking will always do that.
"I'm fine where I'm at thank you," I hum. People speak in quiet chatter around us, all bragging without bragging and money-talking without speaking of numbers. It's in the way a producer shows off his too-expensive watch to show the success of his career and the way a tenor will lift his voice in an-almost song. Success without talking about it.
"You are useless," She sighs. She stands on the heels my album sales bought her. Cream-colored acrylic nails paid for with my merchandise untangle her flat brown hair. She swipes her thumb across her bottom lip smudging her ruby red Christian Louboutin lipstick I bought her with the check I got from my stadium tour. The very same check that went towards the layers and layers of fabric hanging off of her body.
I glance at the far too expensive watch wrapped around my wrist, a gift from my producer (can you consider something a gift if you earned the money to buy the item?) to show my success. 6:01 on the dot.
I glance up and everything changes.
6:01 PM
Through the crowd of people, I spot a mane of curly brown hair. The man's hair is styled in a way that seems as though it curls infinitely. Swirling, and swirling, and swirling in a way that will never ever stop.
