Life Of a Direction-ette

Try being that girl that everyone is used to not being popular. That girl that doesn't win anything. Try. Try this: Try being that girl that ends up being famous. That girl that everyone wants to be like, but secretly hates. Also, try being all those girls and not knowing what to do about it.

Charlie didn't ask for fame. And yet, it consumed her.

Charlie was used to being an outsider. Y'know. That one girl that everyone knew but never talked to. She didn't even think that she would win the direction-ette contest. And she sure as hell didn't think she would fall for someone in one direction. When things get tough, she wants nothing more than to go home with her mom. Some things aren't so easy.


27. Sweater Weather

"You're wearing my shirt?" He says suddenly.

Looking down, I notice that I was in fact wearing something of his, but it wasn't a shirt.

"You mean you're sweater?" I ask, walking around the island into the kitchen. I open the fridge as he says, "Yeah."

"I couldn't find mine. It's cold out, y'know." I inform him. Taking out the jug of OJ, I ask, "You don't mind do you?"

"N-no. It's just..." He trails off with his eyes locked on his bowl of fruit loops.


"Just nothing." He finishes.

I shake my head at him with a smile. After making me a tall glass of vitamin C, I waltz over to him and plant my butt in the bar chair next to him. I sit criss cross and we sit quiet for a while. In the small kitchen that I convinced him to redo, only our breathing could be heard. Ever since I moved in we've been just hanging out and trying to get used to it. I've somehow grown accustomed to the quietness. It's a pleasant contrast to the fans and blinding lights. I don't mind it at all.

"You look nice." I hear him murmur moments later.

"No, I don't." I tell him. I take a sip and I hear him whisper something else.

"What was that?"

"You do look nice." He repeats. I just laugh at him, because he's got to be lying. I mean, have you seen me? I have the oiliest skin in the morning. My hair makes me look like a damn male peacock. I look horrible.

"What?" He asks.

"I don't look nice. I look bad. Like a sick person." I try to explain to him.

He simply shakes his head and says, "No, you don't."


"You don't. What do you want me to say?" He interrupts.

"I don't look nice, okay? I just don't." I admit.

"Oh my goodness." He groans.

Before I can reply, he spins my seat towards him. I look to him with widened eyes. "You don't look bad. For heaven's sake, stop thinking that. You are beautiful, absolutely beautiful. You don't know how much that bothers me when you say that. You're fucking perfect. Stop saying bad things about yourself. It doesn't just hurt you, it messes with me to, dammit."

Once he finishes, he pushes my chair back to how it was before and I just sit there.

Did he just say that?

"Thank you." I whisper.

I stare into my glass, but I can still feel his eyes on me.

"You don't have to say thank you for me stating the obvious." He says back to me. I just smile and press my lips against his cheek.

"I know."


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