#permanetcross

Nobody would believe you if you told them you’d seen Harry Styles tonight, so you wouldn’t, but you had.

At first, you thought it was a trick with the stage lights casting a shadow over someone who, under normal light, would look like a poor imitation. You squinted, water bottle in hand, dazedly wondering whether… no, there was no way….

He outed himself when, from underneath his cap, he locked eyes with you out of the side of them and kept looking as if he was staring you down. There was no mistaking him then. He was the picture of a man who’d been caught and who didn’t want to be. You’d seen that same look in photos, but having it directed your way cut right through you — he was paralyzing, wasn’t he?

You waved your fingers around your water bottle with the most serene smile fitted to the dreamy music before looking back to the stage for the show you’d both come to see. He didn’t have to worry about you, but you didn’t blame him for not assuming that.

He was there with friends — you assumed, anyway, because however much the papers might like to paint him a certain way, you highly doubted they were all with him — but occasionally you caught each other’s gaze again, and each time he was markedly more relaxed. He doubled over with a cackling laugh and mocked how you danced, and you spun immediately in an exaggerated repetition of it that left him grinning. You caught him, on occasion, bellowing out lyrics during some of the more raucous tunes, barely able to get them out past his grin. And there was a moment of locking eyes during one song in particular that, if you hadn’t known better, would have been electric, but in reality….

Real or not, you stopped swaying and singing under your breath, rooted to the floor, and swallowed hard, swearing you could still feel his gaze when you looked away.

And just like that, it was over. The house lights went up, and that distinct sound of an empty stage rang in the air. You and the rest of the people who’d been standing began your slow dispersion, bottlenecking at the exits and in stairwells. It crossed your mind you might catch a glimpse of him if he hadn’t been whisked away backstage — that sounded like the kind of thing that would happen to him — but it never, ever occurred that you’d run smack into him.

“Oh!”

If you’d thought he was unfairly handsome from a distance and in photos, up close was better — and worse. His eyes, creased at the corners, twinkled, lit by his lopsided smirk. A mountain of unstyled curls sat beneath a cap that barely fit over them, and one dimple burrowed deep into his left cheek. People with dimples were always unfairly more attractive, weren’t they?

For as long as you’d followed his career, you’d imagined countless scenarios for encounters and even more probable first words you’d say to him. Reality was different than fantasy, though, and what else was there to say to someone you’d collided with other than—

“Sorry!”

He grinned wider, holding your elbows when you stumbled some, and hours later you’d think about how warm and soft his palms were and how strong he’d felt (and promptly bemoan how romantic you made it all sound).

“Alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said. And then, because you couldn’t not say it, “Hi!” Soft and breathy and bubbling with some of the shock and elation you’d felt when you’d seen him.

He laughed, a chortling snicker. “Hello.”

“Good show!”

You’d always thought if you said that to him, you’d be talking about his. He opened his mouth, but you were already slipping out of his hold and slipping past him when you said, “I’ll see you.”

Wistful. Regretful.

Countless scenarios and countless more conversations, but in reality neither of you had time for any of them.

If you hadn’t known better, you’d have said he was shocked, but in reality, there had to be another reason for the way his jaw dropped and his eyebrows disappeared beneath the brim of his hat.

“Take care….”