The brisk wind cascades over the branches of the skeletal winter trees. The wind bites the student's noses, nipping their cheeks and chins. It paints them with fuchsia blotches. I caught myself with a tinge of-
Here we fucking go again. Would you just give me a bit of peace and quiet? I'm trying to escape this reality here, not write fucking slam poetry.
Virid metal lockers blur on either side as I jog through the extended corridor.
I don't know where I'm going. My plan was to run. Just run as far away from here as possible. If I go far enough, I'll plummet off the map and back into my body.
I'm living in a fanfic. One would think I'd be elated, right? To live out my every daydream and wattpad illusion? To be that special girl with the coveted Harry Styles? No. I am confused, alone, and my skin crawls with unfamiliarity. None of this is ideal if there isn't a way out. I want Brenda. I want Laci. I want my mother.
One of my arms is curled around a binder and textbook. I turn the corner, sprinting down another hallway. Whipping past some open doors, the chatter of the classrooms fades in and out.
Whatever I did last night got me trapped. I'm in a cage and this universe is unlikely to grant me the key.
Speeding through the hallways, I am nearing the the parking lot. The expanse of the campus enables me to run further than I'd expected. Jasmine's pair of lungs keep up more efficiently than Jane's. I could run all the way home if I wanted. Well, to my 'other home' where my 'other mother' resides.
It won't feel like home. Nothing does. I should be driving my tattered Honda civic to get frozen yogurt. I should be inhaling the tomato soupy musk of my house. I should be hiding in a massive hoodie, instead of my outfits being chosen for me. I should be interrogating the boy Laci has over. I want to be Jane, I want to be Jane, I want to be-
"OOf!" We both utter as our bodies collide. My textbook and binder slap on the concrete, along with a pair of car keys and Rayban sunglasses. I hold above my stomach, where my belongings had forced the air out. The pain and shock swept away with the horrifying realization of whose glasses those were.
What a fucking cliche.
Adjacent to the mess is a pair of brown chelsea boots, confirming my suspicion. I refuse to lift my vision. I'm not ready to see him in full; to embarrass myself again. I reverse apprehensively. He's not real if I don't see him, so I treat him like a ghost.
He crouches down, illustrious chestnut curls emerging into view. He's in a black plaid flannel and tight skinny jeans, like he would have worn 8 years ago.
I'm stunned when he holds my book and binder up to take. This is a dopamine and epinephrine overload. I still don't look at him, only his tattoo'd forearms. My fight or flight is screaming about the threat to run away from. That threat is mortification which will no doubt happen like it did with Niall. Keeping my sight on only his tattoos, I snatch my belongings and sprint the opposite direction.
"W-wait!" His accent echoes down the hallway before his footsteps follow.
Picking up the pace, I whip around a corner in hopes that I'll lose him.
"Stop! Please!"
I continue down, hearing his feet stomp close up behind me.
Women's bathroom. Perfect!
Once I cross the threshold to safety, I keep my hands on my knees until my heart slows down. To be sure, I sit on a toilet for a pathetic 20 minutes. Phew, I lost him.
---
I called my mother to help pick me up, but her car had broken down. I'm as vulnerable as a mouse being circled by hawks. I constantly check over my shoulder for the green eyed man in question. By fanfiction rules, he'll probably turn up anywhere. He seems to exist in all places at all times. I keep picturing a creepy little Harry pouncing on me from the rosebushes or out from under a car. I can't predict anything these days.
Somehow, I thought him into existence because his voice was booming from a blue Mustang he'd pulled over on the shoulder. "Heyyyy!" He calls like I'd offended him.
I don't have the mental capacity for this. His doll-like gaze should not be set on me of all people. I rev the engine of my feet, jogging uphill. His car rumbles as he tailgates me. I'm a sheep chased by a shepherd.
"Why are you running from me? Have I done something?"
I don't look over. I don't slow down. I am ridiculous, trying to outrun the 10mph he's pushing on the mustang. Jasmine's cardio is no Captain America, and there's no corners to turn to now.
"Please, I just want to talk! Today's been weird and--I haven't done something, have I?"
The worry carrying through his voice makes him hard to ignore. I have to recognize that he's just a character in a book. His feelings aren't real, they can't get hurt.
With my energy fully expended, I give in, resting my hands on my knees. Before I could catch my breath, Harry had slammed his door and was standing at my toes. He smells of vanilla and cigarettes.
Of course it had to be vanilla.
"Why are you afraid of me?"
His black belt is inches from my eyes. I have no choice but to confront him now.
"I'm not...afraid of you." I speak between labored breaths.
ijustwokeupinthewrongbodyandhavebeencreepilyfantasizingaboutourperfectlifetogetherasahappilymarriedcoupleandidreamaboutyousothisisallalittlemuchokaySEESOON.
"Then why run? Why won't you even look at me?"
If I answered truthfully, he'd be like Niall, seeing me as a feral dog that would be better off euthanized. It wouldn't make any sense to him. "I c-, I can't" I stutter a pathetic reply. His sultry voice already has a kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttering around my stomach, how could I possibly gain the courage to look him in the eyes?
Escaping the crotch view, I rotate around, standing upright with my hands laced together over the back of my head. I have to face this and I can't lose my shit. I have to remember he's not real. One Direction doesn't exist here; Harry is fictional.
"You can't?" His voice is close behind my ear as I quicken the pace. "Where are you going? Why do you keep running from-? Hey!" He jumps in front of me and I raise my hands to brace between our chests. "Look at me!"
Cupping his chicken thigh sized pecs in each hand felt disrespectful to linger on. I remove my hands faster than you can say 'consent'.
"Hey," He coos softer, to deescalate. He touches me for the first time, using his thumb and finger to raise my chin to eye level.
Now I'm forced to meet those...emera---fuck you! You thought I was going to say it? Not in my story, bitch, those are jade eyes. Fake jade eyes.
He's fake he's fake he's fake.
Like he'd cast a bright rubber bait on a fishing line, I am entranced by his vibrancy. He's everything I'd seen in pictures and more. From this closeness, his peach hairs are visible, softening his blade-like jaw. His lips were perfect--and I mean perfect. The heart shape and fullness were complimented by the red pigment and hydration. Worst of all were the eyes, which trapped me in their wide glance like I was under Jafar's curse. I couldn't believe how real he looked. I could tug at his cheeks if I wanted to. This may be a character, but it was a jarringly surreal illusion.
The whites of my eyes must've doubled in width because his do the same, as he imitates my face. A massive grin crawls up his cheeks. "You know who I am!"
Harry Styles has a finger under my chin and forced me to look into his eyes. I cannot do this, I've had enough.
For the 80th time today, I attempt to escape him.
"No, h-hold on, stop!" He tries. "It's because you know who I am, don't you?"
Gathering the context clues of: Their stench, clothing, and Niall's dickish atitude, I must be in a bad boy fic. Or a druggie fic. A boxer fic? Whatever I'm in, this is Dark Harry and those guys are not to be fucked with. Egos bigger than Harry's fanbase and tempers shorter than tiny Lou.
He's asking me because he wants his ego fed. He wants the satisfaction that I ran away because I was scared of him. And you know what? I don't really give a fuck, as long as I can get over this and go home.
"I can tell! You know who I am!"
"Harry. You're Harry."
His footsteps silence. I walk for a moment without a response back, then wonder what has him dumbfounded.
Fine.
I turn around to him seeming perplexed.
"You are a fan, right?"
A...what? That word shouldn't be in bad boy Harry's lexicon.
My eye twitches as I reiterate. "A..fan?"
"Yeah." He shrugs. "That's why you've been running away from me. Been here for 10 years, I know what a fan looks like."
Normally, I might bite back to say, 'people usually run away because they're scared and don't want to be followed,' but I hate to admit that he's right. But how is he right? Did he just say 10 years? Like his fame started in 2010, just like real life?
I keep my breathing at bay to steady my heart rate. I have to learn from the Niall situation to be cool. Plus, I always told myself I'd never be one of those screaming, obnoxious fans. I'd be chill, treat them like a friend.
Okay, so maybe I've stopped breathing completely, because he's coming toward me quicker than I'd like. He grips the outside of my arms. "Hey, it's alright," then goes for a hug. "It's alright, love."
He was like a fresh batch of roses, a full package of chocolates, a fireplace on a winter's day. He hugged me tight and warm, like I'd seen him do for so many fans over the decade.
His curls swept across my face and his scent was more distinguished than ever. He chest rose with a deep breath in just before he let go. "You okay?"
I am. I'm more okay than ever. He's comfortable and sweet and smelled nice and looked so real. "Yea." I nodded, red pooling at my cheeks.
This is all too insane for my brain to catch up with. It's like i'm standing outside my shoes and looking down upon myself. Maybe...maybe I was okay staying here. Only for a little while.
"That's good." He smiles, holding the sides of my arms. "Now can you please do me a favor? Can you repeat what you called me? Just so I'm sure."
I comply without hesitation. "Harry."
His lips curl into a beautiful grin. "Just?"
"Just."
I'm pulled in for another hug as he celebrates something I'm unsure of. Frankly, I don't care what he's celebrating, I'm just reveling in the fact that I'm in his arms.
"Thank you! Ahh thank you" He says to me, then the sky. "I have a feeling we're in a similar position, me 'n you." He cheekily waves his finger between us. A finger which I notice to be bare of rings, but not black polish. "Did you wake up in the wrong bed this morning?"
No, Harry. Unlike you, it's not the wrong bed I woke up in, it's the wrong body. Plus, I'm slowly gathering that this may not be a fanfic Harry and that horrifies me more than anything. I was hardly okay with the idea of fictional Harry Styles. Now, I'm being persuaded into believing I might have the real, actual guy in front of me? Throw me in a guillotine and behead me because I'd rather die. Okay, maybe not....but also maybe.
"It was the right bed." I start, honestly. "The wrong everything else, though."
"Yea, wrong everything, right? Everything is off today." His enthusiasm peaks with excitement. "All the people who...who..." He doesn't finish, "...and I'm in school. For some reason I'm 19 again-" He stops himself, muting his enthusiasm, "I'm really sorry. Following you was obviously a really bad thing to do. I just-I've been so lost all day and I finally kind of found someone who knew me as me and...ya."
"It's fine. It's really fine." That's all I could blurt out mindlessly, as I was mentally elsewhere. He's now confirmed that we're in the same position. This is a real guy who was yanked from reality. He's a real guy. The real Harry Styles.
God I cannot keep up.
"M'really sorry...would you mind going to coffee or something? To talk about this, not on a sidewalk?"
Entranced as my 15 year old self watching video diaries, I fall dangerously close into hypnosis via jade. His speech is siphoned before each word. He has a tactful manner of delivery, worthy of admiration. He never sounds too harsh in fear of hurting anyone. As scared as I was to embarrass myself around him, I couldn't say no. How could I possibly say no to him ever? For anything he asked for? And it might be helpful to talk to someone who's in the same boat.
We hop into his mustang. The leather seats have soaked up a toxic amount of cigarette buildup. Dense enough to muddle the clean air in my lungs and I can't contain my urge to cough without bursting a neck vessel.
"Sorry about that." He rolls down all the windows. "Apparently I'm a smoker now."
"Don't...worry about it." I barely manage to cough out, holding a thumbs up.
He waits for me to finish before pressing the gas. I feel his speculative eyes on me as I beg my lungs for mercy. Soon after, there was enough fresh air to breathe in.
"I haven't got your name yet."
Heaven forbid I pass up my opportunity to rise above mediocrity.
I extend a hand toward him, staring into those beloved almond shaped eyes. "Jasmine."