Her Name Was Marty (Niall Horan)

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|Who is ready for some Miall/Narty? comment which ship name you prefer|

|Three months later|

“MARTY! MARTY! WOULD YOU LIKE TO STATE YOUR CURRENT RELATIONSHIP STATUS?”

“MARTY, WHO IS YOUR PARTNER IN THE SEX TAPE? CARE TO COMMENT?”

“MARTY WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY ABOUT RUMOURS THAT YOU ARE PREGNANT?"

More profanities follow, paparazzi telling me what a messed-up pop star I am. I’m just the same as the rest... Next week I’ll be in rehab with a drug problem, and then I’ll be anorexic. They can’t stop. Even after all this time.

3 months felt more like 3 years, every day felt like weeks.

“Leave me alone.” I know it’s no good, but it’s what I say every time, somehow hoping that they’ll somehow get the message and one day they’ll pack away their cameras and allow some peace to my life. Surely there's another celebrity out there? Cheating on their partner, or acting out of character? Why is the spotlight still shoved on me?

Life had gone from being halfway to the top; My record was selling just fine, and although I had troubles with my boyfriend, most of the time we were happy, and my family were proud of what I was achieving.

Then what? A drunken night in a city I don’t remember comes back to haunt me. I’d fought with my boyfriend, gone out to get drunk and somehow the guy had recorded our moments of intimacy, and I didn’t even notice. Now the contract with my Record Label is gone, my boyfriend is gone, and my family are pretty much gone too. All I wanted was to make music that would change the way that people saw the world. I can’t even do that now.

I manage to get inside the building and finally paparazzi have stopped following me, although they still try to get pictures through the windows, and I try to hide my face from guests at the hotel who might recognise me. It’s hard to get through paparazzi. Most artists have bodyguards to get them to back off, but for me, I have nothing and sometimes I have to wait until they’re done with their photographs until they’ll leave me alone because I can’t move. I can’t go a day without cameras following my moves, for the first few days I stayed put and decided that nothing can hurt me if I stay in my hotel room; that was until the hotel complained. They said that I needed to lead the paparazzi away because guests were beginning to complain about the constant paparazzi parked outside the front of the hotel, waiting for my debut from hiding.

Hiding. Is it hiding if they know exactly where you are? Because that's what it felt like, I didn't feel like I was hiding, I was being stalked. It was far further than a normal stalk of a high-profile celebrity, there were there all the time, never relenting on their pursuit of me. If this were a stalker, I could call the police, have a court-ordered restraining order, and my life could go back to some normality... But can I really get a restraining order on every person on this planet that has access to a camera?

I was sure that someone had leaked where I was, probably someone from the hotel. Because the hotel now seemed to be full of guests, the media attention had at first attracted more guests, but now it had become a nuisance, and I’m sure in the next few days they’ll be asking me to leave. At least when I leave, the paparazzi will leave them; they’re going to be with me for the foreseeable future.

They said that I’d gone forever,

I told them I’d be back,

somehow these cracks in the street

will lead me back

back, back, back on track.

Song lyrics were all I could cope with now, it hurt to think up lyrics now, songs that I would not record because no one will ever give me the chance, and ironically song writing was not my strongest skill, now lyrics were haunting my thoughts, the ghosts of my past. My career that had ended just as I was becoming comfortable at the place in the charts.