Dan's pov

the flashes were blinding my eyes as I made my way through the crowds, as they screamed my name. I wanted to close my eyes and leave this hellish place but I couldn't. I was trapped. Most people would kill to be famous, and I used to be one of those people, but I soon realised how wrong I was. Don't get me wrong, the attention is great, the fact that everyone knows my name and I don't have to worry about dying into nothingness. Life may be meaningless but at least it might not be as futile as some lives. People will have something to say about me when I'm gone, whether that be bad or good; I liked that. What I didn't like, was random strangers chasing me wherever I went and invading my personal space. What I didn't like was the feeling that nobody actually knew me. Many people studied me like a subject, finding out all my likes and dislikes, relationships and childhood memories. Or so they think. They know what I tell them, and they assume the rest. One time I stumbled across a "would Dan Howell date you quiz" and it was utter bullshit. It was an imaginary date quiz and the first thing "i" said was babe. BABE??! who was I? Some kind of douchebag/surfer/weirdo, I mean, isn't that word a little degrading?? its like I'm telling them they're below me or some shit. The quiz also said I liked long walks in the park... like anyone would ever actually think that. The only time people say it, is to come across as sweet or to impress someone. There are so many other "facts" people say about me, but I would bore myself to tears as the list would go on for hours. So, my point stands. Nobody knows me, and it fucking sucks. But while I may hate the fact no body knows me, I don't want anyone to know me. I'm such a contradiction. I don't want someone knowing all my secrets, having to spend time with one person without the security of small talk, yet I hate small talk and hate that no one knows me. What the hell is that about?!.

The other perk to popularity was that I became irresistible. Everyone wanted me, everyone thought I looked amazing, mentioning that I was "on fire". As much as I hate that description, others seem to love saying "Dan is on fire" and it's somehow became a thing. People are weird. They also described how my eyes were like melted chocolate, my lips were smooth and pink, and hair the perfect mocha brown, soft and lustrous. An onlooker would probably call those looks boring, but people seem to love it. What can I say? It works being a singer of a famous band. They appreciate my looks so much that there are entire websites dedicated to one particular "asset", as I like to call them. To be honest, I find it pretty amusing, how much people appreciate my looks. But I'm not going to complain when it affects people so much, makes everyone want to sleep with me, or be me.

My tallness is also considered an "asset" even if to me it seems inconvenient and incredibly awkward. People often blurt out "YOU ARE SO TALL" when I meet them. It's like, the first thing they say. And I'm like, yeah, mate, you're so original. I have not heard that 100 times today. And yeah, thanks for notifying me on how tall I am, I never realised.

As much as I like the sexy band guy look, more often than I like I get called adorable, especially as I have dimples 17 feet deep or as deep as the ocean, or anything as original as that. My fans love my dimple so much, they gave it a name, Derek. ridiculous. Even if I did not choose this particular branding it does help my reputation, as a cute, adorable guy would never have gossip going around of his everlasting parties, the hauls of people begging to be fucked, or that he hates his fans.

I don't even get to decide what I wear, further highlighting my branding. One would think I would get to choose what my branding is, but my mum decides all of that. Not that I care, but I wish she'd pick less mortifying clothing. Though it is what it is. I'd be happy wearing a potato sack on stage as long as I'm singing my lyrics on that stage.

Even that has been ruined slightly for me. I would love to play piano on stage, as it is my favourite instrument, apart from my voice. Its just so cathartic, and somewhat beautiful. It gives me the calm I don't have. It's my antithesis, but in a good way, so that we compliment each other. It was also the first thing I learnt to play. Unfortunately that's where those happy memories of practice stopped, as my teacher was a fucking bitch! I'd rather not relive those terrible memories... Nevertheless, piano is still one of the best things in my life.

I do however insist that I wear black skinny jeans, which my mother doesn't object to, seeing as they fit the fashion. I've gotten used to being a pawn in everyone's life and I've accepted that. They seem to know what sells anyway. That's what I am: a selling machine who likes to sing.

I was stood there, pouting at my hypothesis, before my security guard put his arm on my shoulder and I was jolted into reality, but oh! how I wished this wasn't reality. Actually, who's to say this is even reality? It could just a perception of what reality is, what even is the definition of reality? My mind had decided to drink a shit-tonne of caffeine and run the lengths of my brain in one second, and it couldn't be stopped. I knew now wasn't the time to lie on the ground in the middle of the street, thinking all these stupid questions, but it was where my mind liked to go when I felt trapped like this. I focussed on keeping my eyes open, and taking deep breaths. I've been trying for the past week to fix this, fix everything, but so far no results. I knew what would fix this, for now. If only I could get through the crowds.

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I sat on my stool, holding a half empty bottle of wine, leaning over the breakfast bar, slowly shutting my eyes as the alcohol consumed me. My thoughts began to blur together and a wave of euphoria was setting in my stomach. The stress was almost too much today. I desperately wanted to curl up in a corner and shut out all the noise, but I was forced to deal with it all. After all, I've gotta take care of my reputation, a line my mother often repeats to me. I didn't want to think about my mother. She was upstairs anyway, oblivious to me. I didn't want to think at all. The alcohol was supposed to fix this. Maybe I needed something stronger...

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I woke up with a pounding headache and a tongue made out of shredded wheat. I slowly opened my eyes to find a white room with my mother leaning over me. This wasn't my house. Where the fuck was I? Did I make my way here? Why would I choose to go here? What even was this place? It's so... clinical.

My mother coughed in front of me, and I waited expectantly for her to say whatever grand announcement she was going to make. Nothing was ever simple with her.

"Dan, I'm sure you're wondering why you're here" she said, like its a sentence deserving an award or something.

"No shit" I retorted back, ignoring her dramatic ways. Whatever she's planning couldn't be good. It never is. She's always looking for a way to control me, make sure I'm the perfect celebrity so she can have all the money she likes; so she can be proud of what I've achieved, not looking once at who I am, only what I should be. She doesn't even need my money. I shouldn't even give it to her. I earned this all. I bought our house, our car, our tv, everything, yet she still insists on controlling me like a damn puppet.

"Dan. Dan! Are you even listening to me? I'm talking to you," mum exclaims, and I snapped out of my thoughts. I looked at her expectantly, before she finally explains,

"You're in hospital, from that stunt you pulled last night" face looking stern, her eyebrows furrowed with concentration, her aura one of complete exasperation. Typical, no sympathy for the pain I must be in if I'm in hospital. She was just mad that I crashed her damn car. Its not even hers! I paid for it. And now she was here for her revenge, and what you may ask was her weapon of choice? Therapy, that's what.

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Of course, after telling me this, I didn't see her for the whole of my therapy. I was told she was hurt by what I did, and couldn't face seeing me yet. Harold was actually a pretty cool therapist and didn't try to be anyone he's not. It almost felt like he wasn't paid thousands of pounds to therapise me.

Part of the reason he was paid so much was due to the discreetness of it all. Mothers orders to save her back and not tell the world how much of a fuck up I was. But I was glad no one knew of this. It would mess up my reputation; Everyone hates the spoilt depressed boy who had one reckless night, where they wrecked his mother's car and had to get therapy. There were many things my fans didn't know, and I wanted to keep it that way. Fans are nosy enough as it is. Anyway, I don't perform for the fans. I perform for me.

I was now bidding farewell to my therapist buddy, and was actually quite upset by it. After all, I told him almost everything about my life and he helped me through my breakdowns as I re-lived the terror of the crowds, and made me question what it was that left me feeling so empty most of the time. So I awkwardly said to Harold, "this is it dude. Guess I'm cured now". He looked at me disapprovingly as I said this, and told me once again,

"Depression cannot simply be cured, there is no on off switch." I nodded my head,

"I know, I know.. just trying to lighten the mood" I ensured. And we awkwardly stood for a few minutes. We weren't the best casual conversation makers, despite Harold being a therapist, who talks to people for a living.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I hope I don't see you again" he finally said, as I laughed slightly.

"Me too, me too" I mumbled back.

"Call me if you need anything," he says, I just tilt my lips up, an imitation of a smile. I could now see the limo, driving around the corner.

While I understood now how therapy was a much needed way of sorting my shit out, I did not understand why I was forced to go to a place called Clovelly, in Devon for a "rest". I'd already been away from the band long enough. We were going on tour soon, and I need to write the songs! Doesn't anyone realise that my band helps me? Apparently not, as I had to experience "normal life" which meant going to the middle of nowhere, and going to school.

I was gonna have to look this place up. May as well find out what hell hole they're sending me off to. Apparently it was a good place to hide, good views to promote a calm atmosphere and a low population, to give less of a chance of being spotted. It also meant that I was definitely going to lose my mind. I already talked to myself. With this amount of isolation, I'm probably gonna be standing in a corner muttering myself. At least everyone would avoid me then, so they would never find out my identity, or speak to me in general. Actually, maybe that wouldn't be a bad thing, as if someone recognised me, I could get out of there faster... but also ruin my reputation when the secret is revealed. My fans are scary. They always look into the tiniest of things and try to find stuff out about me, and they're relentless with it. I shuddered at the thought, and waited for the limo to pull up.

First things first, I know it's not amazing but I just wanted to get it done.

this is just a preview thing. i won't actually start it yet.

I'm aware my punctuation is all over the place, and I don't know if the tense works. Hopefully I will get better, but I am in need of some tips. Feel free to let out all your concerns with this schmidty piece of so called writing.

Tell me if punctuation is clunky, if the tense feels wrong. Or let your imagination run wild with other advise.

Or, if you cant be bothered, and you just wanted to read something, but don't like it just metaphorically bin it. Or, if you cant be bothered to mark my stuff like a teacher, but wanna read this anyway, feel free to do that.

But also, tell me if you like it.

Get used to these long monologues of author's notes.

-also im currently dancing on the sofa because I completed this chapter..... when I should do homework. Productive? Or unproductive? You decide. -

I could say anything at the moment, after all you're all just existables right now.