A few days later I wake up at my usual time, and make my way downstairs as normal. The house is quiet, but then it always is when I wake up, and there's something I like about seeing the world before anyone else does every morning, well, before anyone else in this house at least.
I'm surprised however to find a note on the kitchen table.
Morning Natalie,
Forgot to tell you, but we're out all day today doing interviews and promotion stuff.
Won't be back until late.
Have a good day.
Louis x
I read the note a couple of times and set it back on the counter.
Huh. That's different. An empty house, all day.
I guess I'll just go about my day as if nothing's different, after all, that's basically what I used to do back at home, on the days I wasn't working at the pub.
I sit with my coffee and breakfast, feeling slightly odd as time ticks past and I don't hear Zayn's footsteps coming down the stairs to join me.
It's cloudy today. I'm sitting staring out the kitchen door, just watching the way the trees in the distance move in the wind.
I'm alone all the time. I like being alone. So why do I feel so odd today? Maybe it's something else, hormones or something I don't know. It's probably just a coincidence that the boys are out today.
But the silence starts getting to me, where normally I enjoy it. So I clear up my plates and head back to my room, putting my headphones on and pressing shuffle, smiling as some Owl City song comes on.
I finished my portrait of Zayn the other day, and I smile as I glance at the canvas, resting gently against the wall.
I'm going to paint Niall today.
I go through my routine, picking out another canvas the same size as before, and grabbing my paints.
I know exactly how I want to paint him, the image is still fresh in my mind. It's from one of our guitar lessons, which... I've gotten better at! Though I definitely still need to practise more.
I remember him sitting opposite me, also with a guitar in his hands. That boy becomes a completely different person when he's holding a guitar. The confidence rolls off him in waves, and he's so easy-going.
He was sitting in front of me, his fingers twiddling around on the strings without him even realising, I think, and he looked at me and laughed as I made some sort of mistake. His face just lights up when he laughs, and I couldn't help but laugh with him.
I don't think that boy has a bad bone in his body. He's so supportive of all the other boys, and of me too, I guess. Never once have I heard him say anything negative, even as a joke. I can see why the boys all have him under their wing a bit.
Liam showed me photos of all of them when they first auditioned, and my heart actually melted. Louis wasn't very pleased when I took the opportunity to go over and pinch his cheeks. Who would've guessed such a sweet looking boy with a bad haircut would grow into such a handsome young man?
Harry was the same - I almost didn't recognise him. His eyes were so different.
Liam showed me his photo and I was so surprised. I remember looking at Harry, real life Harry, and meeting his eyes, and there was something in them that I couldn't place. It made me quite sad. I realise that, despite their public image, these boys don't have it as easy as a lot of people think they do.
I stop for some lunch, but then go straight back to my painting, finishing about halfway through the afternoon. The sky is still cloudy, but I sit on the balcony and read for a while, trying to ignore how quiet it is.
I'm just clearing up after dinner when the front door opens and I hear the boys enter. I poke my head round the corner, and see Harry practically run upstairs, and wince as his door slams.
"Hey guys," I say softly, noticing their concerned faces, "how was it?"
They all come trudging in and flop onto a sofa.
I haven't seen them like this before. They look tired, and sad.
"Not great," Liam answers, "the last interview we did, the interviewer was super pushy, and not very nice."
"That's an understatement." I hear Louis mumble. My eyes glance to the stairs where Harry went.
"Is he alright?" They know who I'm talking about.
"To be honest?" Louis replies, "No, I don't think he is." And my heart sinks a bit.
"They made some real nasty comments about him." Niall tells me.
"I see." I want to go and speak to him, try and comfort him. The boys will probably tell me not to, but I can't just leave him if he's upset.
"There's dinner warm for you guys in the oven. Please just help yourself." I say, and then head upstairs.
I've never been in Harry's room before, but I know which one it is. I knock on the door gently, but hear no reply, so I turn the handle and slip inside.
The room's painted a sort of peachy colour, and is laid out very similarly to mine, just on the opposite side of the hallway. The bed is made - I'm not sure if that surprises me or if it makes perfect sense, and the vanity opposite is littered with rings, necklaces and hair products.
I can see he's out on the balcony so I gently make my way to him. His balcony looks over the front of the house, and he's staring out at the long driveway.
I quietly come and stand next to him, close enough that we're almost touching.
I don't know what to say. I don't know if he's angry or upset or what. If he's angry, anything I say might make him lash out, and I really don't want that.
I don't like people shouting at me. Never have.
I don't know why, I haven't had any particularly bad experiences with people shouting. My parents never got mad enough to shout growing up, so I didn't have any experience of it until I got to school and I had a particularly nasty teacher.
My body just goes into fight or flight mode when I hear someone shout - especially a male. I don't want that ever happening with Harry.
I decide just to reach out to him, placing my hand on top of his as it's clutching the railing, rubbing his knuckles with my thumb.
We stand there in silence for a while, until I feel like he's calmed down. His breathing has relaxed loads, and when I glance at his face there's no outward sign of anger.
"What did they say?" I ask, my voice barely louder than a whisper, body braced for him to shout. Instead he just exhales deeply and drops his head.
"The usual." His voice is quiet. "How many girls have I slept with? Does it bother me knowing people think I'm a whore? What does my mum think having raised a slut?"
An involuntary gasp leaves my body and I tense up, practically recoiling.
How, how could anyone say things like that? To anyone? It's... fuck! That's fucking disgusting.
My voice sticks in my throat and my eyes sting. He's looking at me, gauging my reaction, but I don't know what to say.
"That's fucked." I manage to whisper, and he chuckles bitterly.
"Yeah." He's staring out again, and I can see the pain on his face.
I hate it. I don't want this horrid interviewer to have won some emotional battle over him.
"Something my mum always used to say to me," I start, hoping desperately that this is the right thing to say, "The people who mind, don't matter. And the people who matter, don't mind." I can see his brain comprehending what I've just said. "Anyone who loves you doesn't care about how many women you've slept with, they don't care about the world's perception of you."
"I haven't slept with that many women." He says.
"I don't care."
The words come out instantly, my voice a lot stronger than I was expecting.
He looks at me then, and I can see his eyes are watery, and I think mine are too.
I mean it though, I don't care. Not only is it none of my damn business, but who someone has or hasn't slept with means absolutely nothing.
"Society finds any excuse to hate on other people - there's no winning." I say to him. "I learnt that the hard way when I broke up with my boyfriend in school, and he started spreading rumours that I'd cheated on him with two other guys. The whole school called me a slut for like six months."
I pause for a second, taking in a shuddering breath. The memory still stings slightly. I can vividly remember the days I spent crying in the toilets at lunch time, not wanting to face anybody at my school.
I slowly learnt to move on and stop caring what people thought about me, and eventually the comments stopped.
"I know it's not the same," I say softly, "but, you know, I understand."
All he does is wrap his arms around me and pull me in for a hug. He's doing this to comfort me, but I know it's him that needs it really.
I clutch my arms as tight as I can around him, burrowing my face in the crook of his neck. I can feel him breathing. His breaths are short, as if he's trying not to cry, and I can't help but hold him tighter when I feel that.
He pulls his face away, arms still holding onto my shoulders. His eyes are completely black and staring into mine so intensely I feel like my breath has been snatched from my lungs. He leans down slowly, eyes fluttering closed, and kisses me.
This is not like the other kisses we've shared. He needs this - I can tell. He needs comfort, and so I melt into him, letting him know he can take what he needs. His hands clutch at the fabric of my jumper, and my heart aches for the pain I know he's feeling.
He still tastes like chocolate, but as fragile tears fall from his eyes, I can taste the salt as well, mingling on our moving tongues.
It's the kiss of a drowning man, and all I want to do, more than anything I've ever wanted to do in the world, is make him know that I don't judge him.
That he's safe.
He breaks the kiss, eyes still closed, and places his forehead against mine, his hair brushing my cheeks. This beautiful man in front of me, looks so defeated, and I can feel tears escape the corners of my eyes.
I reach up and clasp his cheek, brushing away his tears with my thumb, and he opens his eyes. I'm taken aback by the honesty and vulnerability he's showing me, and I can see myself reflected in his eyes.
"It'll be alright." I whisper to him, still holding his cheek, and he leans into my touch.
I take my hand away slowly and wrap my arms around him in another hug, though at this point I'm not sure if it's for his benefit or mine. Seeing him like this has shaken me, in a way I haven't experienced before, and all I know is I can't stand seeing him in pain.
It's put a horrid pit in my stomach that borders somewhere between the feeling of needing to cry and needing to shout and scream.
"Come on," I say softly, pulling away and taking his hand, "there's food for you downstairs, let's go join the others."
He says nothing, but nods slightly, gripping my hand with his and using the other to swipe away the remaining tears.
I let go of his hand as we reach the bottom of the stairs, allowing him to go and get what he wants from the kitchen, while I go and sit on the sofa between Louis and Zayn. Louis gives me a look and gestures towards the kitchen with his head.
"He'll be alright." I say softly, reaching out both my arms to offer the boys a cuddle, and I can tell it's been a rough day for them as they both lean into me.
It may have only been about a month, but these are my boys, and I don't like seeing them in pain.
I wish there was something I could do to take their minds off today, but for now, all I can offer is a comforting silence.