☆

[y/n]

_

AHHHHHH, THIS IS WEIRD.

Everything's a bit foggy, but I can't tell if I've shifted or not. I'm still laying in my bed, in my bedroom, and in my house. I just feel like I've been hit with a 4 stone weight. Maybe even 5.

Letting out a painful groan, I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand, slowly pulling myself onto my feet. The lack of covers made my bare legs shiver with the cold air of my room, and I had to resist the urge of falling back asleep. Stumbling over to my desk, I placed my hand on the white surface to groggily investigate my surroundings.

Everything was exactly where I left it; a half-finished tea mug on the right, an untouched bouquet of flowers from yesterday, and scattered papers of homework. The only thing missing was my notebook—which carried the details of my minimalist script.

"So, I'm currently in my Desired Reality," I muttered to myself, yawning between words, "or I have a notebook thief."

Cool.

Or, not cool. As I willed myself to get dressed, a thought occurred to me that I was too depressed to think of earlier. A really important thought. One that made this whole thing a complete waste if it turned out to bust.

If I went in without a script, how the hell am I going to find Louis Partridge?

I'm in my normal world, living my normal life, which unfortunately has a serious lack of the boy being a personal friend. I'm an idiot. A seriously, bloody, idiot.

At least it's Saturday and I don't have school. I can stick around in this world for a little longer. It will give me a chance to do whatever I want to do, without having my parents on my back, Monica and Heather forcing me to tell them my secrets, and the overall tragedy of school weighing me down.

I need therapy.

But I'm too broke for that, so I'll just visit the flower shop instead.

"So here's the plan," I said to my reflection, staring into my bathroom mirror with a mix of exhaustion and disappointment, "take a day off from life, do whatever you want to do in this reality, and then go back home and write a different script."

I was talking to myself, which was a sign of insanity. Or it was a sign of a sane person who didn't have anyone to talk to. The point is—mind your own business. I don't know how Monica could shift so many times, and still feel like nothing was missing or out of place. I felt like a two-timer in my own skin. Living a double life.

Grabbing my house keys from the kitchen table, I slipped on my shoes, heading out of my house and towards the bus stop a few blocks away.

It was empty.

Cool.

Plopping onto the bench, I stared out into the barren street, trying to find a sense of calm. I messed this whole thing up. I wasted my time and energy to shift into a replica of my current reality, and now I was going to my flower shop because I didn't have anywhere else to go.

Anyone else to talk to.

Who would understand, that is.

"Hello, terribly sorry," someone said, their voice panicked, "can I sit here?"

Not even a second after I turned my head towards the noise, a blurry figure of someone ducking under the bus stop whipped into my gaze, and I was perpetually knocked over by them forcefully sliding next to me onto the bench. The bike they were carrying was tossed quickly off to the side.

So much for their question. They had the hood of their black jumper pulled up over their head, almost covering their eyes, and they shifted uncomfortably as they stared at the trees in front of us.

A robber.

Who cares, they were sitting creepily still—an imitation of an estranged statue—and they seemed to be on the run from something. Maybe this was an elaborate plan to kidnap me.

"Are you okay?" I said.

"Perfectly fine," they said in return.

Well, that made one of us.

But it wasn't until they turned their head to look at me, that I felt the wind knocked out of my lungs. I'd seen him before, loved (?) him before, held his hand and kissed him before—and while none of it was real, neither was this. It was in those hazel eyes that held my favorite memories, and seeing them up close again was like looking back in time.

He found me.

"Are you okay?" He asked, "you look a bit out of it."

I realized I was staring at him with an open mouth and wide eyes. It was the shock. I'd done this countless times, but each time I saw him, it was like seeing him for the first time. A cliché I had no control over. And now, here he was, someone sitting next to me at an empty bus stop, with a deflated bike propped up against the wall.

"Oh hell," was all I managed to say, "you're Louis Partridge."

And before I could process anything, I saw his eyes widen with panic, and he slapped his hand over my mouth to stop me from talking. I nearly fell backwards, but he caught me with his other arm, pulling me back up right.

"Shhhh," he said frantically, "please don't say anything."

I was about to question what he was doing (if I even could question it with his palm pressed against my face), but before I could think to, a loud noise of laughter and screams started to grow from around the corner. Averting my eyes to the side, I caught a glimpse of a gaggle of teens rushing around the block in a huddle through the glass.

Where is he? One of them said, while the other's muttered, I swore he went this way!

I watched hesitantly as the group scuttled far down the block and disappeared out of sight towards another street. It was quiet again. Letting out a heavy exhale, Louis quickly took his hand off my mouth, falling back against the glass wall behind us in exhaustion.

"I am so, so, so, sorry," he said weakly, closing his eyes in regret, "I deeply apologize for that."

It was weird seeing him like this.

Well, not that weird is a bad thing, but all the other times I scripted my shift, he was made to be this perfect guy—quick witted, charming, cheeky, a little bit cocky in the best kind of way, and had a knack for saying flirtatious things at the very first meeting—but this Louis was flustered and spaced out like...a normal human being.

I guess I always made him out to be this perfect guy.

And that made me feel guilty for changing him in my shifts. He was good enough in any way, and I shouldn't have made him an angel without fault. So I was with the unscripted version of him, but he was still beautiful in my eyes. He was just different.

"It's okay," I said, shifting in my seat.

"I was only trying to go to the corner store, but then they all just started asking for pictures, and I freaked out and ran," he explained, letting out a groan between sentences, "signing autographs can be awful."

When I didn't say anything, he widened his eyes again.

"Not that I'm not grateful for my fans, don't get me wrong," he panicked, waving his arms around spazzickly, "but I was just really tired today, and they were being annoying—and don't get me wrong I love them—and I value their support...but....ergh, you know what I mean."

He slammed his head in his hands.

There was something oddly cute about his flustered personality, and I tried to suppress a smile as I watched him sigh into oblivion. His accent got a tad bit sloppy when he rushed through his words, and his cheeks turned pink in panic.

"I understand," I said assuringly.

Louis cracked open a gap between his fingers, looking through his hands at me. When he saw I meant what I said, he smiled weakly, sitting back up straight and readjusting his black jumper to how it was before.

"Brilliant," he noted, "you know who I am?'

I nodded. "Viscount Tewksbury."

"So you've seen Enola Holmes?"

"More than twice."

"More than twice," he smiled to himself, nodding affirmatively, "I'm guessing you didn't hate my acting too bad then."

Oh, if only he knew. His acting was so phenomenally good, that I ended up getting lost down a rabbit hole of desired realities just so I could meet him. So yeah. I didn't hate his acting 'too bad then'.

But, since I obviously didn't want to say that, I changed the subject.

"You live around here?" I asked, gesturing to the bus stop we were sitting under.

He laughed. "No, but I punctured my bike tires a few blocks back, ran into the corner store to see if they had a pump, and then the fans came, so I sort of took off towards here."

"What made you run?"

"One of them trying to steal my sock to sell on Ebay."

"Maybe running was a good idea."

He laughed again, and I saw the sun.

This bright, lovely thing that made me feel warm inside. Something everyone knew was beautiful, but still felt personal to whoever looked upon it, and even the stars couldn't outshine him if they tried. Louis was like the sun with his laughter, and I wanted to revel in his light with every inch of my freezing body. I'd had enough darkness in my life.

We spoke a little longer, and I began to let myself fall into the familiarity of it all. I'd spoken to him so many times, and even though it was only a figment of my imagination, it made me feel comfortable around him. He was a nostalgic feeling. A feeling of a past life.

But I finally had him again.

Well, until the bus came rolling around the block. Line 276. I had places to be, Louis probably had places to be, and I couldn't expect to hold on to him forever. But he found me at least. When he leaves, I'll just wake up, fix my script, and try to make him fall in love with me on my own.

It's that simple.

"This is me," I said, getting up from the bench, "thanks for talking to me, Louis."

He glanced at the bus, before scrunching his nose. "You're leaving?"

"I couldn't stick around forever, could I?" I wanted to, but that wouldn't be realistic.

He nodded weakly, watching as I dug through my pockets to grab my Oyster Card. As I stepped onto the red bus, I prepared to scan my fare, but something caught my attention.

A familiar sound of teenage squeals and murmurs came barreling down the sidewalk, and through the glass windows I could see the same gaggle of fans Louis was running from heading in his direction. He seemed to see it to, because he began to panic.

"Where are you going?" He called out to me.

"Abbots lane," I said, "have to pick up some flowers."

He grabbed his bike. "Mind if I tag along?"

I hesitated, not out of response to his question, but because I was surprised. This shift was already messed up—I didn't make a backstory to guarantee I'd keep meeting him, and that ruined the whole idea of trying to see if he'd love me naturally—so his urgency to stick with me was a shock.

Maybe this reality wasn't so messed up after all.

"Of course," I smiled, "hop on."