In 2016, I spent a week hanging out with Harry Styles.
We met at a café in West Hollywood.
Yes: I’m serious.
Yes: I’m talking about that Harry Styles. Is there another? Honestly, probably. Imagine: your name is Harry Styles but you’re not the Harry Styles. You’re Harry Styles the accountant. Harry Styles the pilates instructor. Eclipsed, forever, by the Jupiter-sized shadow of a pop star.
No: I didn’t take a picture with him.
WHY?! Because. Lol. Who cares if I have a picture? So you can believe me? So I can post it to social meeds and have everyone from my life reach out with eight thousand fire and crying emojis? 🔥 🔥 🔥😭 😭 😭
Plot twist: I don’t care if you believe me. Because who cares? Imagine: I die and all I was ever known for was having Harry Styles buy me a coffee one time. Well, three times. Either way. RIP, here lies Nat, beloved wife and daughter and It-Boy’s-friend-for-approx.-1.5-weeks. She was a real one.
This post is mainly for the friends (/my younger sister’s friends) who’ve asked me HOW DID THIS EVEN HAPPEN?! so I can answer you all at once. And, okay. It’s for me, a little bit. To admit, to myself, that 23-year-old me felt “plucked from obscurity” by the whole experience. A megastar wanted to get coffee with… me? A plebeian?
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