09. sweet dreams.

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"Will you quit positing videos of yourself at the gym?" I ask Luke, frowning as I balance the phone between my ear and my shoulder. "It's actually quite rude."

"Is that so?" his deep laugh resonates over the line as I try to keep myself occupied, this week's overdue homework spread across the table in front of me. "Says who?"

"Says about, two thirds of the fangirl population who follow you," I tell him, in a factual tone. "The other one third hate you for keeping that excuse of a man bun on your head."

"Aw, really?" Luke asks, sounding like a little kid being told that Santa's not real for the first time, "I thought it made me look cool,"

"It makes you look like Jesus."

"A cool Jesus?"

"Jesus is already cool. You just downplayed it."

"Ouch. Someone's rude today," he tells me, and it's slightly alarming how perfectly I can imagine his smirk. "What happened, doll? You woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?"

"Worse. I woke up to a text from you," I mumble, and he laughs again.

"You act like you hate me,"

"Act?"

"Oh, shut up."

"I'm joking. Shouldn't you be at the studio?"

"Day off," Luke replies simply. Then I hear a groan, a shift, and the sound of something metal hitting against the floor. "...and... seventy one."

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Lifting."

"Yeah, right. What are you actually doing?"

"For a little girl, you sure are curious." Luke says absentmindedly, and I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks. As someone who used to know him only through interviews and the occasional magazine fanpage, I never would have thought Luke the type of person to use so many nicknames. "Do you normally like to be updated on what people do?"

"First of all, I'm seventeen. I'm hardly a little girl," I note. "Second of all, yes. It makes my life a little less boring. What are you lifting?"

"Some weights," he says, sounding quite proud of himself.

"Weights? You mean, they weigh?" I ask. He pauses. "Like loaves of bread weigh. Bags of sugar weigh. Did you go shopping?"

"God, you're impossible," Luke says, and I can't help but laugh.

"Thank you. It's a gift," I tell him, to which he chuckles. "Are you doing much today?"

"Why? You wanna hang out?"

"Jeez, you say it like it's that simple," I tell him, and I hear a slight exhale of breath on the other side of the line; he's either laughing again or attempting to pick up the weight, but I can't tell. "I was just wondering."

"We could hang out," Luke notes, "I'd just have to walk around with a paper bag over my head the whole day."

"But then you'd attract more attention,"

"Nobody will care."

"It's you, Luke. Of course they'll care,"

"They won't know it's me," he says, and I actually start to imagine walking down the street with Luke Hemmings; talking, laughing, smiling. Getting to see the wide grin on his face in person instead of having to rely through social media. But then I think about the terror that accompanies that bliss, and I end up shaking my head even though he can't see me. "What do you say?"

"I'm busy today," I reply, in a simple tone. "I have a lot of homework I have to catch up on."

"You always have homework." I envision his frown, the way his brows knit together as he secretly refuses to believe me.

"I know. You would too, if you went to High School."

"I've been to High School,"

"You're a drop out."

"I still went. I know the system," he says, "And I assure you, you can do that work some other time. Or you can even do it with me?" he suggests.

I glance at the hands of the ticking clock, growing slightly anxious at his offer. "I don't know much about English Literature, but I can provide moral support if you need it. Plus, it's my day off. I don't get those very often,"

"Exactly. So you'd probably want to spend it doing something fun," I emphasise, desperate to change Luke's mind- also mainly to avoid him warping my own.

"Schoolwork can be fun."

"Yeah, right."

"It can be. I loved school when I was there,"

"Mhm," I hum, just when I hear the sound of someone clapping their hand against somebody else's back. I also hear a 'well done', a 'see you tomorrow', and double doors sliding open. "Wait,"

"What?"

"You were actually at the gym?" I ask him, sitting up straighter to stare at my reflection on the small mirror opposite me. There's a short silence, for the quickest second, before a breathless chuckle follows.

"Fucking hell, I just nodded. Stupid thing to do, you can't see me," Luke says, and I smile slightly. "But yeah. I told you, I was lifting."

"Well, I'm sorry I didn't believe you," I say, my voice going up at the ends as humour coats it.

"That's alright. Wanna make it up to me?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm not that sorry." I tell him; I already know what he wants, anyway.

I could go. I really could. I'm not doing anything today, anyway, at least nothing important. It would be easy for me to ditch my desk, run out of the front door and to wherever Luke Hemmings wants me in a heartbeat.

But I could also stay inside where it's warm and safe and I won't be swarmed, where the butterflies in my stomach won't errupt, where I can be normal without the threat of being papped lingering in my head all day. I could have all of that and I wouldn't even have to move.

"Oh, come on. Just one coffee?" he asks, teasing me, using one of my favourite things to do to his advantage; drinking coffee. He knows this because it was one of the first few things I told him. Now, I really wish I hadn't.

"I told you, I'm busy today." the lies just keep coming, and I don't know how to stop them.

"Okay. What about tomorrow?"

Tomorrow is a good day. Tomorrow is Sunday, and that means staying inside in my pyjamas, much like how today's going. Except today, I have a few errands to run. Tomorrow is a completely free slate.

"I'm going away. To visit family,"

"Damn, that sucks. I was going to ask if you wanted to meet me at the studio,"

Fifteen year old me would be crying right about now; a sobbing mess, with her knuckle shoved in her mouth to control the explicit screams about to take place. Sixteen year old me would have jumped at the chance, no doubt.

But now I'm seventeen, and scared, and filled with dread, and angry at myself for having a different mindset. It takes all of the courage I have left in me to decline him again.

"I'm sorry. Maybe next time."

"You said that the last time," Luke says. I feel even worse for knowing that I can't argue with him. "I mean, I know it's a little weird meeting someone you only know through the internet and all, but by now you should know that I'm no creep,"

"How long have we known each other?"

"Two months, now. Two months and half a week, if you want it exact," Luke tells me. Inside, my stomach clenches. How was it so easy for me to lose track of time?

"Two months? Are you sure?" I clear my throat, pressing the phone against my ear even more. It's like the harder I hold it, the less tense this conversation will become. "Seems like less than that."

"What can I say? Time flies when you can only text or call someone," Luke states, and although it may not be, it seems like a personal jab.

"I'm sorry." is all I can say, uncomfortably. There really isn't anything else I want to tell him, or at least anything that's suitable.

"Yeah," Luke murmurs. I hear another sigh.

He'll never tell me, because he's not the sort of person to, but he's not very happy with what he's hearing and it's obvious. "Me too."

The spark of the conversation falls after that. Everytime I say something, he sounds distracted. It's not until Luke formally excuses himself to take a shower and doesn't call me back after that I know I've messed up.

When I finally leave my bedroom, Dylan is downstairs, cooking some food on the stove. His apron says 'Kiss The Cook' and beside him is Chase, who is currently reading some instructions on a ready-made packet; confusion furrowing his eyebrows, a purse tightening his upper lip.

They see me and they smile, making sure to bring an extra plate out. As I sit, I think of how they're older than me, though not much older- Dylan is twenty-two and Chase is twenty-five. In some ways, they're more like my older brothers than my neighbours. And seeing as my parents aren't really home a lot, they can pass off as that, too.

"How was school?" Chase asks me, as we sit around the kitchen island. I pick at the chicken on my plate, raising an eyebrow at him as he's nudged gently by Dylan.

"Quit it. You sound creepy."

"I'm just trying to get the conversation going,"

"That's not the right way to do it," Dylan says, rolling his eyes as he passes me a jug of something white. I assume it's lemonade, so I pour it into my cup.

"You try, then."

"What's going on?" I ask them both, though I'm not entirely looking forward to the answer.

They ignore my question. Chase is the first one to speak up again. "How are your friends, Soph?"

"They're fine. Why are you asking me this?" I can't help but be skeptical; after all, it's rare that I ever see Dylan and Chase act like they currently are.

Chase shrugs. "Might as well. What's wrong with making small talk?" I stay silent, for there's nothing wrong with it in the slightest- it's just a little weird. "So. How was school, Sop-"

"I didn't have school today," I interject. Seeing as my life on the internet is anything but normal, and my life outside of the internet isn't exactly the best, I may as well play the fake part that it is. "It's a Saturday."

"How are your Literature classes going?"

"They're good,"

"That's good." I want to talk about Luke. For whatever reason, I feel like I can tell these guys anything. But the tension in the air makes it so that I can't; it's as if there's an invisible authority barrier between us that I'm somehow finding impossible to break.

"Mhm. How's the café?" I ask, though I know, because I worked a shift there this morning and it's been brimming with customers ever since the four boys made an appearance.

"It's good, too." a silence washes over us. Small talk has successfully been made. Chase looks down at his food, triumphant, a happy sort of humming eliciting at the back of his throat.

It doesn't cross my mind to ask them why they're in my house, having dinner with me when usually, they'd be out late working at the diner. But then my eyes flash across the date on my phone, and when I go up they land on the large 'X' scribbled on my calender in my bedroom, and I don't have to wonder anymore.

My parents should have come home today. From whatever business trip they're on, I should have been waiting in anticipation for them by the front door. Only I wasn't, because I'm used to the disappointment, and they weren't. And in compensation, they probably asked Dylan and Chase to make it up to me by cooking dinner and faking a chat you'd hear amongst normal, functioning, healthy families- unfortunately, I'm not sure how to feel about that.

I plop down on my bed with my music blasting on the loudest setting, so loud that it shakes the ground beneath my feet. It's a Mayday Parade song, one of their oldest songs, and I listen to the lyrics with my eyes screwed shut. It's easier if I don't open them, because then I won't be tempted to have a break down in the middle of my bedroom.

I look at my phone, expecting a text from Luke. There's no iMessage notification displayed anywhere, causing my heart to deflate a little.

Instead, I get a tweet. And although it's not personal, I think it's just what I needed tonight.

I hope you wake up on the right side of the bed tomorrow morning. Sweet dreams. xx

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