"I don't know man, that's seems kind of really creepy that you had a dream about a girl you just met," Zayn said, pouring his cereal into his boul and spilling a little bit on the counter without bothering to even attempt to clean it up.
Harry winced. He had been living with Zayn for the past couple of months and he had been regretting the decision since the first night. At the time it had seemed like a good idea, two single lads moving in together to create the ultimate, chilled out bachelor pad.
However, now that only one of them was a bachelor and Harry was finding a very hard time dealing with Zayn's incessant messiness, not to mention the sounds of his girlfriend, Zaza moaning at all hours of the night.
"It isn't that weird," Harry retorted, making his way over to the spill and grabbing some napkins along the way.
"Oh thanks, mate," Zayn said, noticing what Harry was doing and making his way to the bar seat where Harry had been.
"No problem," Harry said, tossing the now milk saturated napkin in the trash bin. "But like I said, I really don't think it's that weird really. I mean I was thinking about her all night worried sick about if she got home alright, so it's natural that she appeared in my dreams. I mean they say you that you always dream about the last thing you go to sleep thinking about."
"Interesting stuff, man," Zayn said, slurping the last bits of his milk. "But I still think there's a problem is the last thing you go to bed thinking about is a total stranger."
"See, but that's the thing," Harry said, now pouring himself a bowl of cereal, avoiding the spillage. "She seemed to recognize me. It was strange, really. She kept saying how she thought we had met before."
"I don't think that's such a strange occurance, Haz considering you're in one of the biggest boy bands of the 21st century and she probably had a poster of you in her room two years ago," Zayn said, now making his way to their living room, adorned with shag carpet and of course a huge flats screen television.
"I know, I know," Harry said, walking to take a seat next to Zayn on their white leather couch. "It just seemed… different is all. I don't maybe I am being crazy."
` For about half an hour the two sat in silence, flipping through the channels and watching everything from Bridezillas to a few minutes of some Disney Chanel movie. Zayn seemed fixated on the television, slouching onto his side and breaking his concentration only a few times to respond to what Harry guessed was a text from Zaza.
Harry, however, still couldn't concentrate. He looked around the room, still trying to piece together his dream, not quite sure how it made sense. He had already lost several parts of it over the day and was now trying to do his best to fix together the haze between scenes. His eyes wandered over their glass coffee table to a nook beside the television (that Zayn had absolutely insisted they buy because it was "fresh", though it matched nothing else in the entire flat), all the while still trying to figure out whom exactly Charlotte Dailey was and why he was dreaming about her.
The previous night:
Charlotte hurried her way around the corner and stopped for a moment, half wondering if this Harry character had decided to follow her. A quick glance over her shoulder assured her he had not and she continued her way down to the street to the bus stop.
As she arrived at the stop, she took a seat on the dark, wooden bench and began to collect her thought. Where did she know him from? She knew she had seen those eyes, those gloves before, but where?
She checked down at her watch, which now read 10:43. The bus was late, but this wasn't an unusual occurrence. In fact, Charlotte guessed, she had never actually seen the bus on time before, so it was more than expected that it should arrive no less than a half hour after scheduled.
However, tonight was not the best night for it's tardiness, considering the freezing temperatures outside. "It's never cold in LA, but the one night I need it to be warm, it's The Day After Tomorrow," Charlotte whispered to herself, cursing the cold breeze that had just rolled in and stuffing her hands into her coat.
She sat in silence for a moment, collecting her thoughts and trying to distract herself from the goose bumps that were beginning to form on her arms to find even a remnant of a memory that could lead her to Harry, but she was coming up short. Maybe it had been someone else, she thought, that had had those gloves, a different boy with those piercing green eyes. Something told her however, that this just wasn't the case.
Soon, after many futile efforts to search her memory, the bus arrived and she boarded with little more than what she guessed had to be at least a minor case of frost bite and a hunch she had once before indeed met Harry Styles.
Harry was under his bed, no older than about five. His vision was all but a haze, trying to peer through the sheets to see his mother. She was fighting with her boyfriend again. They were screaming louder these days, not trying to hide the fact that they fighting from the children any longer. Gemma, Harry's sister, lay by his side, clutching dearly to his forearm.
A glass broke and Harry could hear the cabinets shake as a body was forced against them.
Even in the dream, Harry felt himself tense. He did not want to be here, not again.
Suddenly, though he was in a living room, sitting on a very comfortable couch which appeared to be draped in lace. He looked around him at the white decorations draped over the furniture. The coffee table in front of him was covered by a white and copper cloth with a center piece of only a white lily enclosed in a tall, glass vase. The grand piano to his right was adorned with a large, white bow and had silver confetti sprinkled over its keys.
Soon, Harry found himself making his way over to the left side of the room, where a mirror was hung. He looked into it. He was much younger, little more than 15 he guessed. Harry was fully aware he was in a dream now, as he looked himself up and down. He examined himself closer in the mirror. His hair was half curled/half flat as it usually was when he tried to style it at that age. He was much shorter, perhaps little more than 5 foot 6. He was wearing a black, ill fitted suited.
In an instant, Harry was no longer alone in the room. Behind him was the silhouette of a girl, a girl with long, flowing dark brown hair, wearing a dusty waitressing uniform, who, at the this age, was at least 2 inches taller than him. She stood there for a moment, the same look of curiosity in her eyes as the night before. "You look so familiar," she said, coming up behind Harry and stuffing something in his pant pocket.
Suddenly they were in the dark, in the center of the room where the coffee table once lye, sitting cross legged on the floor, illuminated only by a small, white candle in between them.
"It was lovely meeting you Harry," Charlotte said, her piercing green eyes delving into his. "Good luck."
The next moment she was gone and Harry was sitting once again on the couch he had began on, left only with a clump of wool in his back pocket-a pair of fingerless gloves in his hands, the same pair he had been wearing that night.
