The Baker

The smell of bread was always enough to turn me on. I know, it sounds weird, but stay with me for a minute. Because who hasn’t gotten a feeling of security, at least once, when the aroma of sweet, soft, lukewarm French bread floods their nostrils? When nothing can restrain that airy fragrance from tickling their senses, bringing them to that one special place that calms their uneasy state of mind? Or is it just me? Like always. Always just me. Just me, Harry Styles. Just me, the brother, the son. Just me, the baker. Nothing made me special. Not the fact that I got accepted to an Ivy League school or the fact that I was third in my class. To the public, I was a nobody, ignored by society and rejected by media. I knew the world was going to swallow, chew, and spit me out, disgusted by my existence, when it met me, because the world is high class. High classmen don’t like cheap meat. The sooner I accepted that, the quicker I’d learn to accept disappointment, which comes easier than you’d think.