Matilda | Harry Styles

NINETEEN

"That has an expiration date," he returned, bringing his lips together again as I frowned in genuine confusion. "If I stay in the loop here; even if it's just showing my face back here every now and then, for an event like the one last night, it really helps." 

"You enjoy it?" I asked, "The networking, the events?" It sounded like my worst nightmare.

"I enjoy touring," he said, dodging my question, "and I enjoy making music. Staying involved here means I get to do both things for longer." He didn't appear tense, or agitated by my questions, necessarily, but it felt like there was something deeper that he wasn't quite saying. I supposed I'd never considered it as something quite so vapid; something with an 'expiration date', or a time limit. It made sense - sort of - when I heard it - fame had undoubtedly dwindled out for countless names throughout the years, but for somebody in what seemed like the height of an already prestigious, accomplished career; somebody whose face was plastered on just about every billboard, and whose name topped just about every headline; every music chart; every awards list, it surprised me that he even had to consider beyond his current position. I thought back to when he told me he'd be pushing out another album virtually as soon as he possibly could, after this tour ended - was that something he wanted to do, or something he felt like he needed to do?

I think before I'd met Harry, I'd never have considered that people in his position would have to worry about a thing. I'd seen his face on the covers of magazines for as long as I could remember; pictures of him surrounded by people of equal fame and prominence, or his name on headlines for topping charts or selling out tours. Not to diminish him, or his undeniable talent, but had I never known him, I'd have figured that was all delivered to him on a silver platter - not that he had to be calculated, or conscious of it fading away from him. With one of my first interactions with him being outside of Ally's office, practically accusing me of colluding against him; if that had been the real first and only time I'd ever cross paths with him, I'd have been able to categorise him as a self-absorbed, selfish brat, who wouldn't have known a thing about a situation like mine, and nor could he ever - why wouldn't he tell me not to take this job, because how could he ever understand its significance? How could he ever understand that money wasn't just disposable for me; that another job wouldn't just come around, especially doing something of actual value to me? This kind of opportunity was rare - unheard of - just to fall into the lap of somebody like me. I knew, no matter how hard he tried, he'd never quite be able to understand what it was like - but when he spoke this way, and I saw him in the way I got to, it was hard not to believe that he could understand me more than others had ever been able to. It felt like he got it, without me even needing to say it, or that even if he didn't; he would do absolutely everything in his power to try to.

There was so much more to him, I almost felt angry at myself for refusing to see it. I'd felt it, arguably, from the second I'd lay eyes on him, but it was like, no matter how famous or well-known he was - it could all never even begin to do him justice. There was so much of Harry that I'd yet to uncover, but when I looked over at him, in the simplest of situations; just driving around, or sharing a drink, or when he kissed me, I almost felt sorry for the people who would never know him. It was almost unfair that people had to live without knowing him, no matter the capacity - and it felt almost unfathomable that I came so, so close to being one of those people. 

"Enough about work," Harry spoke, breaking me from my thoughts. "We're both off work, today." His hand reached from its place on his own leg, suddenly, to land in mine, and I almost instinctively intertwined our fingers, relishing in the warmth of his skin against my own. 

"For what it's worth, being on tour doesn't feel like work," I said, honestly. "I don't know how I'm supposed to go back into sitting at a desk in an office all day." I bit my lip following my admission - it was something I did my best not to pay too much mind to; I knew I'd have to, and that I would be going back, but it still filled me with so much dread.