Music pours from the stage and makes its way straight to her ears and her ears only. There's no excess. No elaborate lighting or sparks that shoot up from the ground. Just a five-man band, playing their instruments wonderfully in sync.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK?" Andrew tries to yell over the vocals and screaming crowd.

Even if the room was silent, she wouldn't hear him. Grabbing her Polaroid camera, she hypnotizingly steps forward. The pace of the music slows to a ballad and the crowd parts like the Red Sea, allowing her to complete her excursion to the front of the stage. Andrew watches over her intently as she ignores his pleas to stay by him.

"WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU GOING?" He fails to garner her attention yet again and his attempts to follow her are swiftly impeded by the crowd's growing excitement. She separates from him both physically and mentally, and her love affair with The Orphans is just beginning.

She slowly lifts the viewfinder to her eye to soak in every last drop before snapping the photo. The bright flash pierces through the darkness, catching the attention of the lead singer. With a devilish smirk and toss of his shaggy brown hair, he walks toward his admirer. The attention draws him in, as though there's some magnetic force pulling him there. To say he enjoyed the adoration of his fans would be an extreme understatement. He sees with their gazes and breathes their screams. Their devotion to his presence was the very reason he decided to become a performer in the first place. It would be selfish of him to keep himself to himself.

Her heart pounds in her ears, so loud she's nervous the crowd can hear it over the music, as he bends down to sing to her. His attention to this particular spot in the crowd causes the audience to flood around her, pushing her rib cage against the hard platform. The growing mob doesn't detract from their intense eye contact.

"Move it, Goldilocks!" A disgruntled female says from behind her. She's unphased by the condescension. Is he looking at her or is this a figment of her imagination? Why would his attention be on her?

His hands were seldom idle. Instead, they'd flail and direct the volume of the guitar, the beat of the drums and the reactions from the audience. She was mesmerized by his ability to conduct not only his band but the entire room with his body language. This moment is the stillest he'd been thus far though.

She breaks eye contact for a moment and looks around the crowd to make sure this moment isn't a dream. He is looking at her, and the return of his sly grin as she locks eyes with him once again is confirmation enough for her.

The look is a signature of his. He knows how it makes underwear nearly non-existent and hearts turn to a puddle. No one was safe in his presence, especially with that grin of his.

"Glad you're enjoying the show," he says while maintaining eye contact, his heart-shaped lips pressed dangerously close to the mic. Finally breaking his gaze, he stands and goes back to center stage, pulling her out of her trance to start the next song. "I am Harry MOTHER FUCKING Styles and we are The Orphans!" The mere utterance of his name brings the crowd to roar.

Harry Styles. Harry Styles. Harry Styles. Harry Styles. Harry Styles. Harry Styles.

How quickly his existence overshadows the band's in her mind.

The rest of the show goes by in a blur of musical ecstasy. She imagines this is what it must feel like to drop acid or LSD. An experience so addictive you're taught in Health Class to avoid it entirely.

Overcome with emotion at the close of the performance, she rushes through the audience to get home and put her thoughts on paper while the tune still courses through her veins.

"Where the hell are you goin'?" Andrew follows closely behind her to the outside of the bar.

"I need to get home. You coming? You can crash on the floor if you want."

The invitation makes Andrew's heart smile. Staying the night at her house was his favorite way to spend an evening. While she was busy writing or listening to music, he was busy delighting in the flex of silver in her blue eyes and sound of her laughter. It was enjoyable torture.

The dilemma of Andrew's not-so-secret crush was never an issue Harry had endured. While she's occupied thinking of the perfect metaphors to explain how The Orphans are more than just sex, drugs and rock-and-roll, Harry's busy escorting two "fans" to his motel room to "discuss his music."

"Put on my brain food, please," she requests, throwing her bag on her desk and retrieving her typewriter from underneath the bed. Andrew obliges and puts on David Bowie's Hunky Dory record.

Words spew from her fingertips at hyperspeed. She feels inspired, lustful and crazed. Andrew's mesmerized by her ability to rapidly type while simultaneously mouthing the lyrics to "Life on Mars," and much like The Orphans' show, the passion- and fanaticism-packed review is finished before she even has time to process her feelings. With an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips, she packs her pearls of wisdom into an envelope and rushes outside to the post box.

"What was that all about?" Andrew asks confusedly as she re-enters her bedroom.

"I did it..." she puffs, out of breath from her short excursion down the street.

"Did what?"

"Submitted my article. I knew if I didn't do it right away, I'd chicken out."

"That's my girl!" Andrew hugs her proudly. He was always pushing her to step out of her comfort zone. "What was your pen name this time?"

"Goldie." Grinning, she falls back on her bed, starstruck and finally able to come down from her intense high. Closing her eyes, she silently prays Harry appears in her dreams tonight.

Monday soon arrives and she's anxious for another afternoon shift at work. Andrew slept over the entire weekend, something he often did while his parents were off gallivanting on one of their many international vacations.

"PHONE! GET THE PHONE!" Andrew hits her with his pillow, waking her from the first night of decent sleep she's had since Friday. He sits up from the floor beside her bed to listen in on the conversation.

"Hello?" she answers, still half asleep.

"Hi, this is David Adams with Rolling Stone magazine. I'm looking for someone by the name Goldie?"