Perspective || Harry Styles

2~ Life Swap

The sun shone directly into my eyes as I woke up. I rolled over and covered my head with my pillow. That’s when I remembered that I actually had to get up today. If I bail on the mall trip with Grace, she’ll never let me live it down. I sigh and sit up, running a hand through my hair. My hair…..it was short. My hair was short and curly. It’s usually long and fairly straight.

That’s when I noticed my flat chest and the shirt I was wearing. This isn’t my shirt. This isn’t my body. And my arms?! My tattoo covered insanely muscular arms... What the hell is going on?!

I look around the room and notice it’s not my own. The picture perfect view overlooked the beautiful city of New York instead of the filth ridden alley way I usually spot from my window. I was in what seemed to be a hotel. As I jumped out of bed, I scrambled to find the bathroom. I felt like screaming once I took a good look at myself in the mirror.

Harry Styles. I was looking at the reflection of Harry Styles.

I ran my hands under the water and splashed some in my face. This isn’t normal. This isn’t normal. This isn’t normal. I have to be dreaming. I have to be.

I looked once more at my reflection and practically ran out of the bathroom. This can’t be real. I’m imagining all of this.

I notice a cell phone charging on the bedside table. It must be his. I’ll call my own phone and see what happens.

***Harry’s Point of View***

 

I woke up to some Taylor Swift song ringing through my ears. Really? Really?

“Whoever is playing that better turn it the fuck off,” I mutter, except my voice wasn’t my own. Ah, shit. I probably came down with another cold. “I’m serious,” I snap as it continues to play. When it still isn’t turned off, I groan and sit up in bed. But it wasn’t the bed I had fallen asleep in last night.

The walls were light pink and the carpets were old and tan. The bedspread was black and white with flowery designs, and the ground was littered with little paper scraps that made a trail to a large trash bag in the corner. What the hell?

The music was still playing, so I reached to turn it off. Except my hand was not my hand, and my arm was not my arm. My hand was small and delicate and my perfectly manicured fingernails were painted purple. My arm was thin with hardly any muscle, and not a single tattoo was in sight.

The music finally stopped and I realized it was actually the cell phone on the bedside table ringing. But it wasn’t my cell phone. As I got up to see who was calling, my hair got in my face. My long, straight, light brown hair. What. The. Fuck.

As I scrambled for the phone I got sight of myself in the mirror. My jaw dropped open. Before I could even think about what I was seeing, the phone in my hand rang again with that annoyingly familiar voice. I recognized the number as my own and my eyes went wide. I quickly answered it.

“Hello?” I say. Oh god. My voice really wasn’t my own. It was high pitched with an American accent.