curly-hazza

Happy 21st Birthday Harry

My Girl - Imagine

*Harry’s POV*

I love watching her perform. The way she owns the stage, how her eyes glimmer as the crowd sings along with her, the way she smiles as she waves to a fan. I couldn’t tear my gaze from her, her beauty drew the attention of everyone in the room, her kind heart and smile warming those around her and easing their mind.

She skipped from one side of the stage to the other with a childlike glee, her face beaming as she approached the new section of the crowd, jumping and waving to them all as they screamed at her arrival. Her angelic voice was nothing more than background noise as I gazed at her, perched on the edge of my seat, elbows rested on my knees and chin sitting in my palms. She was playing a small charity concert, a concert she had offered to play with no request of payment, simply desperate to help those less fortunate than herself in any way possible.

Her kindness is perhaps what I admire most, her ability to stay polite and humble despite facing the daily challenges thrown at her, like the paparazzi, the press writing untrue stories in an effort to sell a copy of their magazine, the rude fans who feel like she owes them the world. My girl is strong, and brave, a true glimmer of light in an otherwise grey world.

Her first song came to an end, she beamed and laughed as the crowd chanted her name. She told them how happy she is to be there, how honoured she feels to be helping such a worthy cause, and how overwhelming it is to receive such a positive reaction to her performance. Her voice was soft and gentle, she took quick, short breaths as she recovered from her exuberant performance, and a single bead of sweat was visible in her hairline underneath the bright lights. There was a loud clatter from behind me, but I made no move to turn around.

Y/N had begun her second song, a light, upbeat number that was quick to emphasise her talent. Once again, apparently unfazed by her previous performance, she made her way back and forth across the stage with such energy and enthusiasm, it was difficult not to feel uplifted by her routine. I clasped my hands and shifted them so that they were positioned in front of my mouth in a subtle attempt to hide my proud, adoring smile. I am so in love. A painful, overpowering love that can leave me incapacitated at the most sudden, and perhaps inappropriate times, like at work, on the bus, in the shower, in bed, she consumes most of my daily thoughts. Do I regret it, you ask? Do I regret dedicating much of my time to someone I care about so deeply, someone who has shown me that even in the toughest of times it is possible to remain positive, and someone who I have never met? No, I don’t regret it.

My girl had just turned to face the camera, firing a breath-taking smile in my direction when the screen went black, her beautiful face wiped from before me with the press of a button. I turned and fired Gemma a murderous glare as she smiled smugly, TV remote in hand.

“What are you doing?” I hissed, suddenly furious at her for interrupting Y/N’s performance.

“Oh, I’m sorry, were you watching that?” she replied with wide, innocent eyes as she mocked me.

“Yes, now put it back on” I demanded, my heart racing at the thought of me missing much more of her performance. It was so rare to see my girl on a TV broadcasted show that I had ditched all my plans for tonight just to watch her, after all, I wouldn’t never be able to see her live, because I couldn’t go alone.

“Oh Harry, get a life. The girl doesn’t even know you exist! And here you are, pining after her like a little puppy dog. It’s quite pathetic actually” she said, her voice almost sympathetic as she shot her ‘pathetic’ brother a disapproving glance. Taking a seat on the sofa to the left of me, Gemma turned the TV back on. It was over, she had finished her performance and another act had taken her place. I had missed it. The sudden painful pressure on my chest was overwhelming and I had to excuse myself from the room quickly so Gemma wouldn’t see the tears welling in my eyes. I rushed to my room and closed the door behind me, taking a seat on my bed and drawing my knees towards my chest.

Perhaps Gemma was right. She saw me as everyone else did, the sad, lonely boy who spends his time obsessing over a girl who doesn’t even know he exists. My mother would laugh and mock me when I bought another poster with her face on it, my step-dad would tell me to find someone better looking with a bigger chest and a slimmer figure. Gemma would say that I should find someone with a brain between their ears because, after all, “anyone can get up on a stage and sing a song”. It made me angry to hear the way they spoke about her, to hear them judge someone they had never met and knew so little about. All they had to do was open their eyes, remove their heads from the newspapers that contain more lies than truths, and they would see the person I saw.

They would see the kind, talented, beautiful girl I had been watching on the screen tonight. They would see all the good she has done for those in need, all the effort he has put in to each of her albums, they would see all the crap she puts up with daily. They would see that underneath it all, she really is a little bit perfect.

I wiped a stray tear that had leaked from the corner of my eye and reached beside me to grab my phone. From the small screen in my hand, she beamed back at me, her slightly lopsided grin, bright eyes and delicate features was all I needed to feel better. The screen went black but I quickly pressed the button again so that her face reappeared on my lock screen. I smiled back at her.

Ok, maybe my girl is completely and utterly perfect.