Marley

I groan and roll over as something fuzzy and rough comes in contact with my face repeatedly, small whimpers sounding every so often.

Trying to ignore it, knowing it’s probably Travis up to his usual morning antics, I stick out an arm and try to shove my furry friend away.

“Leave me alone,” I grumble, only to be answered with more whimpers, getting higher and more distressed by the second.

Something is definitely wrong. Travis doesn’t usually get this upset and needy with me, especially this early, and not even when he’s hungry. This seems different somehow, like there’s just something that he’s trying to tell me that I can’t place.

He suddenly barks once, and the harsh sound makes my head throb. “Okay, hell, I’m getting up, what do you want?” I snap, forcing myself to sit up and shove off the covers, as well as my dog.

Travis only continues to grow and whine, recovering from the harmless fall and trotting off to the rest of the house.

I rub my eyes before sighing and setting my feet down on the cool floor, trying not to shiver at the icy temperature. Knowing I’m going to go mad before Travis actually shuts up, I shrug on an oversized sweatshirt and follow along.

I stop on my way to the kitchen as Travis trots to the door and begins
scratching, still whining and growling anxiously.

Now that I stop and listen, I think I can hear something like quiet chatter underneath all the quiet and the city sounds of the morning.

“What is this?” I murmur, feeling the sudden need to tiptoe to the front door, so as to not alert anyone outside that I’m here. Something just gives me the feeling that there are people watching, waiting.

Peering through the peephole, I find myself suddenly overcome with the strong urge to scream and rip my hair out.

For outside, the exact same nightmare I’ve endured for almost a month now is back. Reporters are lined up across the edge of my property with heavy microphones, along with photographers with heavy cameras strapped around their necks. They lounge against new cars, chattering to each other, keeping an eye on my house, on my door.

Only after I really take a closer look do I realize that these aren’t just any reporters or photographers. Before, since the incident, that’s all there were. Trying to get interviews and photographs for later news stories.

No, this is different.

The vans that I thought were new vans don’t have clear logos or labels painted on the sides. The reporters don’t have that same professional air about them, but more anxious, jittery almost. The photographers are the same, and just by their plain clothing I can tell that they’re not just news reporters.

They’re paparazzi.

My heart pounds in my chest as I leap back from the door, as if shocked by an electric field around it. What would the paparazzi want with me? I’m not even close to a celebrity- at least not known for anything good. There’s no reason for this, no explanation to why they’d be here.

“Oh God, what do I do?” I whisper to myself, before spotting Travis sitting next to me on the ground, his ears bent back flat against his head as he glares at the door.

Almost instantly, I crouch beside him and stroke his fur, finding a sort of comforting factor in it. God, I am screwed beyond belief.

After sitting there for a good five minutes, running over all the possibilities and options I have, I finally decide to get up and grab my phone.

Maybe there’s someone I can call, someone that can help me or at least
soothe me a bit. Not Mona, I think, scrolling through my old calls, trying to seek someone
to be a friend.

No, Mona doesn’t want anything to do with me now, not after all this. I doubt that she’d even pick up the phone if I tried.

I hesitate when I see Ben and Clarissa’s numbers. Though yes, they are my bosses (and kind of my friends), I have a feeling that they wouldn’t be nearly as much help as I need in this kind of situation.

Something pops painfully in my chest when I see Amy’s number, still labeled as ‘Ginger Girl’ in my phone. I never did bother to delete her number; something in me just didn’t have the strength to.

I know she’s long gone now, but deleting her number would be actually admitting and acknowledging that, and that’s something I just don’t think I’m ready for.

‘The Bookstore Boy’

Harry.

I forgot that I put him in my phone as that, just so anyone else having my phone wouldn’t realize that I’m communicating with a celebrity. Though I don’t see why anyone would have it.

Suddenly, everything just clicks, and I realize exactly why the paparazzi
must be waiting outside my door.

It’s because of Harry.

Someone must’ve seen that we’ve been communicating, getting together as friends. I want to curse myself or bash my head against the wall or something equally as numbing.

I should’ve gotten Harry to come in the back door when he came a couple nights ago, thought better of some way to hide the fact that he was here at all.

God, I am truly an idiot.

I debate calling Harry, telling him that this has happened and that I’m basically trapped inside my own home, but then I think better of it. What if I’m overreacting? What if these people aren’t really here because of Harry, what if they’re not even paparazzi? What if this is some sort of joke?

“There’s only one way to find out,” I tell Travis, and he only quirks his head at me, giving him a somewhat curious expression.

I change into something more respectable, faded jeans and a comfortable t-shirt at the very least. Scanning my nightstand, I grab my keys and wallet in case I need to just get away from it all. Throwing my jacket on, knowing that I’ll probably want something to hide my fidgeting hands in, I take a deep breath and march for the door.

This is it Marley, I tell myself. Face them. All they can do is talk. They have cameras, they have film, so they won’t hurt you.

Finally, I twist the lock on the door and tug it open, squinting my eyes slightly at the sudden bright light.

Almost instantly, the reporters and photographs snap to attention like wild animals nearly, and there’s only a brief moment of silence before they’re rushing at me and shouting.

“Marley, tell us what’s going on!”

“Marley, is this you trying to distract yourself from the guilt of killing your best friend?”

“Explain to us how you got together!”

My head spins with all the questions, and I suddenly find myself feeling light headed. The flashes of the cameras hurt my eyes, the shouting and hollering pounding into my ears.

“Marley,” the first reporter pants, having sprinting across the lawn in a surprisingly tall pair of heels. “How long have you and Harry Styles been seeing each other?”

I’m sure I look like an idiot, standing there with my mouth slightly open, regarding the reporter as if she’s an alien from outer space.

“W- what?” I manage to stutter out, and I the reporter laughs, but I can a certain light of annoyance in her eyes.

“You and Harry Styles of course,” she smiles instead, making sure to crowd me on my small porch, making no room for any other reporters. “The world famous boy band member from One Direction? We saw him coming into your flat the other day. How long have you two been seeing each other, hmm?”

Finally snapping out of my dazed state, I shake my head at the reporter and try to step away from her, only to have her follow me eagerly. “Harry and I are just friends,” I say quickly, putting my hands up in front of me as if in defense.

“Oh really?” The reporter gives me a smile that seems anything but friendly, more vicious than anything. “You mean to tell us that player and heartbreaker Harry Styles is ‘just a friend’?”

I already feel a glare setting on my face. “Yes,” I tell her firmly. “We’re just friends. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to work.”

Though in reality, I don’t need to be at work for another hour or so, I push past the reporters and cameramen, trying to ignore their loud questions and bright flashes.

The whole drive to work, I just have the sense that I’m being watched.

Though I don’t know it for sure, the persistence I hear comes along with the
paparazzi keeps me paranoid. I didn’t get a good enough look at their cars and vans before, so now I feel paranoid with every van in sight, that just looks like it could be hiding a flood of camera and reporters.

I feel like I’m being hunted like a poor animal in some sort of sick game. The reporters all have their weapons, their ways to corner me and tear me down bit by bit. And all I have (at least for the moment) is Harry.

“Marley, you’re in early,” Ben says in surprise when I walk in, rushing to
get away from the front windows

“Yeah, I know,” I say quickly as I step behind the counter, already making my way towards the curtain shielding the back room. “Just thought I’d get an early start and all, you know how it is.”

I don’t hear Ben’s response when I all but sprint through the curtain and
into the enclosed area that is the back room. Clarissa is nowhere to be seen either, and I feel a sense of relief at being completely alone.

It’s a strange feeling, considering the past month I’ve really been craving nothing but human contact, someone who will just be there for me.

Now I just want the world to go away all over again.

Tell him, a voice screams in my head.

It’s right. Now that I’ve confirmed that the paparazzi are following me all because of Harry, I need to tell him, that is, if he doesn’t already know.

Though I suppose I don’t really see why he would. There’s nothing about me that calls for attention in this type of press usually, why would he notice now?

‘Harry, the paparazzi know that we’re in contact,’ I type with shaking fingers, gripping my phone tightly. ‘What do I do??'

From my spot against the wall, I hear a commotion outside and Ben cursing low under his breath. Already, I can tell that it’s them, the paparazzi. God, don’t they ever rest?

Harry has experience with this every day, I tell myself, trying to reassure myself that it’ll be alright. He knows how to deal with rumors and lies and press coverage and everything I’m foreign to. He can help me… I hope.

Notes

Wow I haven't updated for two weeks today sorry.