Know: A Harry Styles Fan Fiction
The Prize
"Maybe I'm right and there's something out there to believe" - Mark Duplass
• • • • •
You know the feeling you get when something you wish and hope for comes true? When you sort of have to pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming? That was how I felt seven months ago, when I received my acceptance letter from the University of Art and Design London.
Art is something I've always been inclined to but after a few classes in computer graphics in high school, it quickly became my passion. I knew I had to become a graphic designer and I wouldn't settle for anything else.
Tears were shed by the gallons by both me and my parents. They were as ecstatic as I was to be accepted into my dream school but I could tell they were crying because they didn't want me to go, too.
After my brother's accident five years ago, they treasured the only child they had left. I won't lie, I felt a little suffocated at times. I never complained, though. I couldn't possibly imagine the pain of losing a child.
The goodbyes at the airport were the worst. The heartbreaking look in my mother's eyes were enough to make me skip my flight, unpack everything, and go to college close to home instead. The only thing that stopped me was the encouraging smile on my father's face. "We're so proud of you, kiddo," he said, quickly wiping a tear that had been bulging from the corner of his eye. "Gellan would be too."
I think about my father's words and wonder if he'd still be proud of me if he could see me now, completing my duties as a janitor for a local movie theater. I notice some crumbs and dirt have collected by the condiment station so I walk over and begin to sweep it up.
The broom gets caught on something and it takes some effort before it budges. With a closer look, I discover that some brat left his gum on the floor when a trash can sits no more than five feet away. I pull a couple napkins from the dispenser and gingerly try to clean the gummy mess from the bristles and the floor.
As I work, a group of guys and girls my age walk past, hugging their giant buckets of popcorn. I recognize a few of them from school. Thankfully, they're all chatting away about the movie they're about to see and pay no attention to me.
All of them except two, the most gruesomely handsome guy and the barbie doll he has his arm around. They glance down at me and the sticky, dusty concoction I have in my hands and the girl twists her face in disgust. Neither of them say a word. Instead, they pretend to hide their laughter as they look on at me.
If it were a couple of strangers, I couldn't care less. But of course, it was Stanford and Ara. It's bad enough that Stanford used me to make his girlfriend jealous, but he feels it's somehow necessary to bring her around me all the time as if to rub it in my face, remind me of how delusional I was to think that I ever had a real chance with him.
At this point, I give up on the gum-removal-from-broom mission and retrieve a new broom from the janitor's closet. "Jules!" I hear my manager call.
"What is it?" I ask, jogging up to him. Standing at only five feet and four inches, I'm not what you'd call tall, but I still have to look down to make eye contact with my 40 year old boss.
"You tell me," he snaps, pointing at a tiny puddle of soda that has leaked from the machine above.
"Can I ask you something, Jules? Do you want our customers to die?!" he hisses, his ears looking like they could burst into flames any minute.
I want to say, No one would die, you chubby idiot, and this wouldn't happen if your cheap ass would get the soda machine fixed already.
But I don't.
I flatly say, "No."
"Then clean it up this instant!" he commands before storming away.
I breathe out slowly, heading back to the closet to exchange my broom for a mop. To say this job is shitty would be an understatement, but being an international student in the UK is not cheap. Admittedly, living in London is nothing like how I hoped it would be. It's cold all the time, people aren't as polite as I thought, and the pizza is awful.
At least I like my school. That's the place I feel I really belong. That's where I spend time with like-minded people, professors and students with passions like my own. I came here to pursue a career in design and that's all that matters to me.
Eye on the prize, eye on the prize, I mentally chant, pushing the mop back and forth across the tile floor. Keep your eye on the prize.
• • • • •
You know the feeling you get when something you wish and hope for comes true? When you sort of have to pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming? That was how I felt seven months ago, when I received my acceptance letter from the University of Art and Design London.
Art is something I've always been inclined to but after a few classes in computer graphics in high school, it quickly became my passion. I knew I had to become a graphic designer and I wouldn't settle for anything else.
Tears were shed by the gallons by both me and my parents. They were as ecstatic as I was to be accepted into my dream school but I could tell they were crying because they didn't want me to go, too.
After my brother's accident five years ago, they treasured the only child they had left. I won't lie, I felt a little suffocated at times. I never complained, though. I couldn't possibly imagine the pain of losing a child.
The goodbyes at the airport were the worst. The heartbreaking look in my mother's eyes were enough to make me skip my flight, unpack everything, and go to college close to home instead. The only thing that stopped me was the encouraging smile on my father's face. "We're so proud of you, kiddo," he said, quickly wiping a tear that had been bulging from the corner of his eye. "Gellan would be too."
I think about my father's words and wonder if he'd still be proud of me if he could see me now, completing my duties as a janitor for a local movie theater. I notice some crumbs and dirt have collected by the condiment station so I walk over and begin to sweep it up.
The broom gets caught on something and it takes some effort before it budges. With a closer look, I discover that some brat left his gum on the floor when a trash can sits no more than five feet away. I pull a couple napkins from the dispenser and gingerly try to clean the gummy mess from the bristles and the floor.
As I work, a group of guys and girls my age walk past, hugging their giant buckets of popcorn. I recognize a few of them from school. Thankfully, they're all chatting away about the movie they're about to see and pay no attention to me.
All of them except two, the most gruesomely handsome guy and the barbie doll he has his arm around. They glance down at me and the sticky, dusty concoction I have in my hands and the girl twists her face in disgust. Neither of them say a word. Instead, they pretend to hide their laughter as they look on at me.
If it were a couple of strangers, I couldn't care less. But of course, it was Stanford and Ara. It's bad enough that Stanford used me to make his girlfriend jealous, but he feels it's somehow necessary to bring her around me all the time as if to rub it in my face, remind me of how delusional I was to think that I ever had a real chance with him.
At this point, I give up on the gum-removal-from-broom mission and retrieve a new broom from the janitor's closet. "Jules!" I hear my manager call.
"What is it?" I ask, jogging up to him. Standing at only five feet and four inches, I'm not what you'd call tall, but I still have to look down to make eye contact with my 40 year old boss.
"You tell me," he snaps, pointing at a tiny puddle of soda that has leaked from the machine above.
"Can I ask you something, Jules? Do you want our customers to die?!" he hisses, his ears looking like they could burst into flames any minute.
I want to say, No one would die, you chubby idiot, and this wouldn't happen if your cheap ass would get the soda machine fixed already.
But I don't.
I flatly say, "No."
"Then clean it up this instant!" he commands before storming away.
I breathe out slowly, heading back to the closet to exchange my broom for a mop. To say this job is shitty would be an understatement, but being an international student in the UK is not cheap. Admittedly, living in London is nothing like how I hoped it would be. It's cold all the time, people aren't as polite as I thought, and the pizza is awful.
At least I like my school. That's the place I feel I really belong. That's where I spend time with like-minded people, professors and students with passions like my own. I came here to pursue a career in design and that's all that matters to me.
Eye on the prize, eye on the prize, I mentally chant, pushing the mop back and forth across the tile floor. Keep your eye on the prize.
@twelve
Thank you so much! Means a lot. xx
5/12/14