Know: A Harry Styles Fan Fiction

The next morning while making breakfast, I spill the news to Effy about Harry being a movie star/boy band singer/teen heartthrob.

"Is that so?" she says, thoughtfully sipping her tea. "He doesn't strike me as the type to be in a boy band. He's got tattoos and everything."

"How do you know he has tattoos?" I ask, removing the hot waffles from the sizzling waffle iron.

I drizzle mine with maple syrup while Effy bathes hers in molasses, chocolate chips and various fruit slices. How she keeps her shape with that appetite and never stepping foot in a gym is beyond me.

"I saw them when he came round yesterday," she answers. "His shirt was unbuttoned a tad and you could clearly see the start of two large tattoos upon his chest."

"Were you checking him out?"

"So what if I was?" she giggles, waving her fork at me. "You're just his mate, remember?"

"Yeah," I defend, "I am. I was just... wondering."

She pushes her hair over her shoulder and digs into her feast.

"So," she says between bites, "have you shagged him yet?"

"Effy!" I shout, glowering at her.

"It's just a question!" she can barely say through her hysterical laughter. "Friends can shag friends. There's nothing wrong with that. In fact, that kind of relationship is grand!"

"I know, but that's not what we are," I say affirmatively.

"Then what are you?"

I pause just a millisecond before answering, "Friends. Just friends." My conscience nags at me but I quickly shut it up.

"Can you believe we've never heard of him before?" Effy says. "Or that band he's in, One Direction or whatever."

As I scrape maple syrup from my plate with a slice of waffle, I ponder that thought for a moment.

"Actually, I can," I finally say, reaching for my mug of tea. "I'm too busy to pay any attention to what's on TV or magazines."

"I could say the same," Effy agrees. "Except it's not that I'm busy so much as I simply don't care for all that celebrity rubbish."

"Says the girl with the biggest crush on Orlando Bloom," I say, rolling my eyes.

A guilty smile spreads across her face.

"Who doesn't have a crush on him? Christ, look at that jaw line," she gushes while shoving her phone's background picture in my face.

"And how does Ansel feel about that?"

"He doesn't know," she whispers as if he's in the room. "By the way, he invited us to his mate's birthday party today. Would you come along? Ansel said there'll be loads of single men."

"How many times have I told you? I'm not looking to meet anyone," I say, exasperated.

"Because you've already got your heart set on Harry, haven't you?"

"My heart isn't 'set' on anyone," I tell her, scrunching my fingers with air quotes. What does my heart know about anything anyway? Its only duty is to pump blood throughout my body, so why does everyone credit it to making choices of the emotional kind? It never made sense to me. "Besides, I have to work today."

She pouts at me while I get up and drop my dishes in the sink. "And we're back to the old Jules," I hear her sigh behind me.

While at work, I see Harry. Not in real life, but a cardboard cut-out of him. He stands alongside his four cardboard bandmates, smiling in front of the promo for their movie.

It's remarkable that I walk past this thing everyday and I've just now noticed it. Perhaps it's because I spend most of my time at work ensuring that every inch of these facilities is spotless that I don't notice much of anything else.

After taking a quick glance around, I pull out my phone and snap a picture of cardboard Harry. I text it to real life Harry with the message, Look who keeps following me.

It's funny. I've always thought that whenever celebrities are posed on TV, movies, or ads, they look a million times different under the thick veil of editing and photoshop. But Harry, he looks exactly the same---no, scratch that---better in person than he does in print. The cardboard doesn't capture the definition of his curls just right, the small mole on his lower cheek is hardly visible, and his eyes are nowhere near as brilliantly green as when you're standing right before them, in the flesh.

"What are you smirking about?" Haydis, my coworker, says.

He applied for this job when the theater just opened, so he landed a cushy position scooping popcorn and pouring slushies for people. I often wonder why he even takes lunch breaks considering the amount of food he sneakily eats during his shift. I'm not complaining, though. He's the only coworker I talk to and he's backed me up plenty of times when our boss had been particularly aggravating.

"Nothing," I lie, "just looking at that cardboard display."

"They all look like a bunch of losers, don't they?" he laughs heartily. He reminds me so much of my brother. Other than the hair that was so black, it was almost blue, he was always laughing, always protective of me. "Especially that fellow with the curly hair. What's his name? Henry?"

"Harry," I correct too eagerly.

Haydis glares at me, suspicion rising with his arched eyebrow.

"Uh, so I've heard," I stammer.

Accounting for his attitude with One Direction, I'm not sure if he'd approve if I told him I'm friends with Harry, much less believe me.

"You had me scared for a second there," he replies. "I thought you were one of those crazy One Direction groupies."

"Groupies?" I nervously laugh. "They don't actually have groupies, do they?"

"How should I know? But they've got so many fangirls obsessed with them. You were lucky to have the day off when their film premiered but I shoveled so much popcorn that night, I had carpel tunnel for a week."

"That busy, huh?"

"Good god, it was a nightmare," he groans, rolling his eyes.

My phone vibrates and I quickly pull it out to check it.

"Better put that away," Haydis quickly mutters under his breath.

But it's too late. My manager is already marching toward us, his stubby bald head turning the color of a ripe tomato.

Before I can swing my broom around and pretend I'm working, he scolds, "Do I pay you two to dilly-dally about all day?"

"Sorry, won't happen again," I say dispassionately.

"It was my fault, sir," says Haydis. "I was asking Jules if she could tidy up the arcade hall. I walked past it earlier and it was a mess, a code 22 disaster."

Having been too anxious and excited about scoring my first job in London, I don't remember a single code I learned from my first week of training. Our boss peers over at me, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

"Well," he snaps, "what are you waiting for?"

Without another word, I slip away. When our boss marches off in the other direction, I glance over my shoulder and flash Haydis a grateful smile. He shoots me one back.

While inside the large alcove housing arcade games that are centuries old and machines that are mostly out of order, I stand against a wall hidden from view and check my phone.

It's Harry. He's replied to my picture with another picture.

I open it and see myself, sitting across from him at a table with a pink rose between us. He must have sneaked it when I wasn't paying attention because I'm stuffing a greasy slice of pizza in my mouth with my eyes half open. It's so unflattering that I burst into laughter, earning strange stares from the little boys playing air hockey.

Underneath the picture is a text:

Look who keeps running through my mind.

Notes

Two things.

1. How do you like it so far? What do you think will happen next? I know the chapters are a tad on the short side. They were originally longer but I split them up into smaller chapters cause it just made more sense in certain parts. Hopefully it doesn't bother you too much. :X Any and all feedback is welcome. Votes are welcome too, but only if you think it deserves one :)

2. I just made a twitter to help me vent my "complicated" love for Harry. I'll follow back if you tell me you're from harrystylesfanfiction.com! twitter.com/harryyousuck