Heart Throb

Chapter One- Bella

 I've heard a lot of girls say that they hate not being good enough. That they wish that they were more than they are, and if they were just a bit prettier or if they had more talent they would also have more significance.

This way of thinking is somewhat hard for me to understand, because my problem is quite the opposite.

I know I'm good enough. I'm happy with who I am. I've accepted myself, and learned to take pride in my talents and accomplishments.

But that's the thing. I feel like I could do so much with what I have- my voice, my writing, my ideas- but I haven't gotten an opportunity. I've tried hard to find one; spending countless hours of research, posting constantly on social media about my exploits, uploading my music on YouTube so as to build a fan base.

So far, nothing I've done has paid off. All research has given me is the knowledge that I have little to no chance of ever becoming a famous singer/songwriter. I have four followers on Twitter, two of which are family members. The other two are my best friends, Anne and Greg. My YouTube channel has been doing a bit better, but I'm not exactly ready to go on tour.

I've had people ask me why I care about fame so much. Why I have this obsession with being world-renowned, with travelling the globe to share my music with adoring fans who know the lyrics to all of my songs.

To be completely candid, I don't know.

Something about the whole thing excites me. Being up on a huge stage with dancing spotlights swirling around me, singing my heart out as a crowd of people wave their phones in the air and sing along... just the thought makes my heart swell.

If all of these celebrities (whether they be singers, actors or models) are human just like me, why do they get such a big life when mine is so small? They were born on this earth, and they'll die on it. The difference?

People will remember them.

But what about me? Will I have a few friends who weep for me at my funeral? Perhaps a husband and a handful of children?

I want to be bigger than that. I want to be of more significance.

I raise my hand and let my fingers find the smooth surface of the poster that hangs on the wall beside my bed.

Like him.

Riley King. The singing sensation, dance extraordinaire, totally-gorgeous-but-equally-sweet guy who got discovered at a singing convention in Hollywood almost two years ago.

And I, Isabella Rose Aspen, am just another fan who fell for his charm and incredible talent.

He doesn't know I exist.

I force myself away from his poster, but keep my eyes trained on the angelic face.

Riley has a warm, California tan. His hair is jet black at the roots, but currently blend to platinum blond at the top, usually gelled straight back. Don't get me started on his eyes. Sapphire blue, with the just the smallest hint of green in the center.

He's completely perfect.

I usually spend a few hours a week staring at the poster. It's probably creepy and stalker-ish and possibly, possibly, a bit obsessive.

But I don't care. I can imagine all sorts of perfect scenarios when I see his confident eyes; I can picture myself on a flight to Hollywood to sing a duet with him, to go on tour, to watch the sunrise together...

"Are you fangirling again?"

My fourteen-year-old sister, Tara, stands in my doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. She smirks at me in a way that makes my blood boil in my veins, and I let out a sigh of exasperation.

"You're annoying, you know that?"

Tara shrugs in response and crosses the room to flop down on my bed. My perfectly positioned pillows cave in from her weight and topple over, and I force myself to be calm.

Recently Tara's been getting on my nerves more than usual, and I don't know if it's the fact that she's finding more ways to annoy me, or if I'm suddenly more easily angered.

"His eyes are too close together," Tara comments.

"Get out," I mutter, because that sentence shouldn't have bothered me nearly as much as it did.

"Whatever," Tara sighs, and gets to her feet. "I was just stating my opinion." When she reaches the doorway she pauses, and turns to look at me. "Anyway, I don't know what all of the hype is about. His music sucks."

She disappears a moment later, and I resist the urge to chase after her. Instead I let out a heavy breath and fix the pillows, before putting in my earbuds and turning on Spotify on my phone.

When I play my favorite song, No Turning Back, I feel my whole body relax. The tension dissipates as Riley's voice fills my head, calm and reassuring.

He sings about the power that love has over us, all-consuming and impossible to control. He sings about the beauty in it, but also the suffering, the longing and the pain.

And God is he right.