"You've overcome a lot since you entered the music business," she redirects her recorder towards his face. "There are a lot of challenges that come along with actually making it 'big.' What do you think was the hardest part of all of it?"

"It's certainly not easy. You've been on this side," he replies, gulping down half of his beer. "I think you understand how much life on the road and on the stage can take a toll on your personal life, don't you? I mean you are Goldie, right?"

"Yes..." she drops her head to her notepad and pushes the bridge of her glasses up on her nose. "But last time I checked, I'm the one who's interviewing you."

She unsuccessfully shrugs off the memory with a giggle and doodles in the margins of the paper thinking of ways to change the subject. It was inevitable that the question would come up. The queries about her time on the road and her experiences with the band. Those moments would forever occupy a permanent place in her heart. She accepted it. And the moments made it easier for her to open up each interview. She's one of them. She understands.

But the questions still had a sting to them.

"Right," he says, finishing the bottle. "There's so much about this lifestyle that makes it difficult to have a normal life. If you would have told me a few years ago that I'd see our band name — DURAN DURAN — written in huge, bold letters on poster boards in a massive audience, I wouldn't have believed you. Taking a black marker and scribbling 'Simon Le Bon' on a picture of myself. It's surreal."

"I feel like this universe is fairly narrow, too," she adds. "There are only so many people you can trust. And if you have bad blood with someone, it's almost definite you'll run into them again."

It had been five years since she toured with The Orphans. Four years since she had made the hardest decision of her life. Three years since everything was turned on its back. Two years since she found her independence. One year since she finally started to feel comfortable with the recovery from it all. It was a long process. A process she was still attempting to navigate.

She's more confident and secure with herself now. She found her voice and her writing for Rolling Stone benefited from it. She replaced the beaches of Venice with overwhelmingly tall skyscrapers. Jimmy's record store with quaint cafes and delis.

The fumes of mass transportation, mixed with steel and concrete, were akin to the ocean spray back home. But she still missed the heat of the sun and, most of all, the comfort of the moon's cool air at night.

It's a vastly different atmosphere now. New York City is the smallest big city on the planet. Over-populated and busy, the small territory has a knack for putting the introverted in situations they'd much rather avoid. One could run into their therapist from Brooklyn in a coffee shop in Manhattan and be face-to-face with the man they flipped off on the subway miles before as they stirred sugar into their espresso.

For quite some time, she anticipated Harry would be standing at every corner she turned. A welcomed hit to her psyche. She wondered, knowing how famous The Orphans had gotten, if she'd be assigned a follow-up job to write about their new album or latest show. She figured she'd see Harry at a club as she attempted to stalk an up-and-comer for a new story.

However, despite the fact she heard his voice frequently on the radio and his face time-to-time on TV, she was surprisingly able to avoid direct interaction. The change in music's landscape made Harry hard to completely escape.

The birth of Music Television. The closure of Studio 54. The introduction of synthesizers coupled with the death of disco.

"Exactly!" Simon sits back and crosses his legs. "It's all a glorious cluster fuck, for lack of a better term."

"I love that! Glorious cluster fuck! That's an excellent album name." She jots down a few notes on her paper and continues. "Next question. Do you —"

"HARRY!" A muffled voice yells from the front of the bar. It's tough to hear over the pounding base of The Eurythmics "Sweet Dreams," but his name always had a way of cutting through even the loudest of melodies.

That's a very common name. It can be anyone.

"Sorry," she shakes her head. "If you could do it all over, do you think —"

"MITCH! MATT!" The voice yells again shortly after.

Also common names. But not so much when coupled with the preceding name.

"Can you excuse me for a second?" She sets her notebook down, her knees shaking. She peaks her head around the corner. No sight of him. She weaves her body through the crowd, searching for long brown locks amid the sea of humans.

Her back hits the doorknob to the bathroom and she ducks in to steal a few moments to collect herself.

"You knew this was bound to happen eventually," she says to herself as she gazes upon the graffitied walls. She grasps onto the Polaroid camera around her neck for comfort. Her safety blanket of sorts. "It's okay. Just go back to the interview. Get it over with. Go home to Ziggy."

The thick air of the bar hits her face as the bathroom door re-opens. Mitch and Niall stand at the back, talking with Simon. Hands move up and down, left to right. She watches their animated behaviors and remembers all the shenanigans from the tour. She takes steps forward, unveiling more details of her friends. The surface area of Niall's tattoos have expanded. Mitch's hair has grown several inches and his curls lay over his Yes band tee. Matt has barely changed save a few more undone buttons on his collared shirt. Nick laughs on the sidelines, his hair slicked back and vibrant teal blazer standing apart from the crowd. The sleeves are pushed up and his white tee underneath is tucked into matching pleated pants. Jonesy looks as though he's been wearing the same outfit for the last five years, which is to be expected.

But where is he?

Keep your head up, movin' on
Hold your head up, movin' on

The crowd starts to part. Each squeak of her sneakers brings her closer to the reunion. He's nowhere to be seen. She can get back to the interview and move on without seeing him. She'll speak to all but one of the men that made her who she is now and move on. But there's a sad part of her that longs to see him.

Sweet dreams are made of this
Who am I to disagree?

It's serendipitous that she'd see them now, just as she was explaining the small universe. Much like when she first witnessed them on stage, she feels a pull towards them like she's on a slow-moving conveyor belt.

The bar, CBGB, was small and claustrophobic, much like The Trip on Sunset Boulevard. A place where musicians — small and large — came to experience the latest and greatest. If there was any place that she'd run into The Orphans, this was it. The precipice. A perfect metaphor for the clash between small-time musicians and those on the forefront of serious fame.

She hovers towards the group, planning her explanation. She practices her excuses and her reasons for leaving. She gives the speech she'd gone over a million times to herself to perfect it before seeing them. They'd surely understand.

And there he stands.

His sad green eyes look at her deeply and intensely. It's only a few short seconds of silence, but in that time, all the memories flash before the two of them. The stars are suspended in an atmosphere of longing. Their history is the sole force keeping the earth revolving. The building tension between their distant bodies has been creating an energy needed to keep the lost pieces of the world from giving up from finding their needed counterparts.

I missed him. I missed him. I missed him.

"Belle?" Harry stares at her in a way that can make the tides stop rolling. Waves subside. The moon is pulled down into an unknown part of its orbit.

I need her. I need her. I need her.

"Your hair..." She says aloud. Her Peter Pan looks completely different. He's dressed slick in a tailored suit, hair short and eyes framed by blurred black eyeliner. Her heart crumbles in response to her words. Years and years she's practiced her speech, yet these words are all she's able to say.

She lassos the sun and pulls it close to her. How sad it was before she could feel its warmth. How badly she longed for heat in the winter months when the sun leaned so far away from her.

She runs her fingers through his soft mane. Harry maneuvers his head to smell her wrist. He closes his eyes, and takes in the sweet floral scent. Flashes of cherry popsicles and shotgun kisses sneak to the forefront of his mind. Special brownies and the tent-clad combination of two lost souls. At this moment, everyone around them is made of thin wax. Their combined presence melts any and every distraction away.

Harry has been waiting for this. He welcomes her resurgence, but questions what he should do next. He has practiced for so long.

Is she even real?

Their beating hearts are the building snare. Their heavy breathing is the bassline.

He knew she'd likely be here and orchestrated the run in. He practiced what he'd say. But in the exact moment he sees her face and feels her fingerprints against his jawline, all is forgotten.

The loosely-mended pieces of his broken heart began to split again. Her endearing smile warms the dark corners of his soul that have been iced for so long.

She smiles nervously, grabbing the sides of her face and runs her hands through the golden strands of her hair. He feels like all eyes were on her sweet spirit. He's mesmerized by her ability to conduct not only his heart but the entire room with her gaze and physical touch.

Both of them have been in a constant state of moving forward. Chaos and extreme changes have distracted them from reality, but they are finding solace in the feeling of staying still. The growing crowd around them builds but doesn't detract from their intense eye contact.

It had been five years since their first U.S. tour. Four years since she left. Three years since everything took a turn. Two years since he recognized his distinct voice. One year since he finally started to feel comfortable with his new reality. It was a long process. A process that he was still attempting to navigate, but still longed that it navigated back to her.

Young love. It's something that cannot be defined. It's sweet enough to be felt in the very depth of the soul. It's raw. An open wound.

"I've missed you..."