I sat in a long corridor, my elbows on my knees and my face drowning in a never ending sea of nerves. I held my fingers together so they didn't shake or I didn't fidget. My nails were already red raw and bitten to the core, a habit that only rears its ugly head when I feel like I want to jump off a cliff, when my heart is thumping outside of my body, or when I want to throw up from all the feelings I feel.

There were boys everywhere. They were sat in seats, like me, that lined the walls near tall windows that looked out on to the allies and back streets of London. They were stood in open spaces or in cramped corners. Some were chatting, some were clearing their throats and making noises that sounded like voice practice. A couple were sat on the floor, knees drawn to them, listening to music in headphones and on IPods.

I couldn't decide if this was heaven of hell.

They were all around my age, eighteen, some were older, but not by that much. Nobody paid any attention to me, nobody really paid attention to each other. We were all here for one thing and that thing was a thing I could never imagine me having. It was a pipe dream, one that was so far away in the horizon that I constantly thought to myself; what was the fucking point? What was the point when I could have realistic aspirations like becoming a doctor or a lawyer or finding the cure for Cancer?

They all seemed pretty more realistic than becoming an international superstar.

Who was I kidding? I couldn't sing. My family and my friends and my teachers all told me I could but they don't fucking know anything. Dad was waiting in the car; I told him not to come in because I couldn't see any other parents once we'd parked and seen other applicants walking into the building.

I'm not rocking the boat; I don't want to stand out.

But I do, I do in so many other ways.

"Number 78? We're ready for you." A woman in a black suit stood in the doorway that led to the rest of my life, leaning on it like it was no big fucking deal. A boy in a crisp shirt and a short black ponytail gulped audibly, before following the woman and closing the door behind him.

I stared at the door intensely, burning holes into it with laser vision that I'd just decided I had now. I'd be able to see inside, see what they were looking for, see if I had it. What if I didn't? What if I'd travelled nearly six hours, all the way from Manchester for no reason at all?

Sorry kid; today isn't your day.

I'd probably end up throwing a chair and smashing a window, grabbing one of them by the neckline of their posh, wealthy shirts and tell them where they can shove that record deal.

"Excuse me, is anyone sitting there?" I didn't hear the voice at first; too busy thinking about how I'd strangle the producer or punch the manager. But when I finally did after the guy's second try at making me acknowledge him, I looked to my side.

The anger was washed away by the tide smashing against the sand as I stared up at the most beautiful face I'd ever seen, stood there, smiling down at me with dimples I could have crawled into. He had dark blonde hair, darker at the roots, and wore a white t-shirt with dark trousers. His smile faltered when I didn't say anything for far too long, my mind frozen and my heart angry for making these choices for me. He eyed the chair next to me again and I followed his gaze, where my notebook was sat.

I had done it on purpose, so no one could have sat next to me. But this guy, this guy could have sat on my face if he wanted.

I shook my head, almost tossing the notebook away, it feeling like a piece of garbage next to him. I rested it on my lap though, because I'm not an idiot, and it was my ticket into this whole fucking rigmarole.

The boy didn't stop smiling at me as he leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, cool as a cucumber. I tried to not look so nauseous and anxious, but I think it came across as dazed and confused.

I was, I was dazed and confused.

His nose was slightly crooked and he had a sharp cupid's bow. I didn't want to stare at any part of him; his eyes his lips, the nape of his neck.

Jesus, the nape of his neck.

"I'm Oliver." He stuck out his hand to me, but I just kept staring at his face like it was on fire. "Oookay..." He raised an eyebrow when I didn't return the handshake. The silence was eating me alive.

"Sorry," I snapped out of it, finding an interesting spot to look at on the floor. "I'm just nervous. I'm Scott."

He laughed, like a thousand wedding bells chiming at once. Oh, please go away. "You're not alone, Scott. I think everyone in this room is."

"You're not, though." I looked back at him, and he had his head cocked to the side like a needy puppy. Back to the spot on the floor. "I mean, you don't look it."

"I mean, I am nervous. But I've been told that I'm good with people, so it's not really the persuading that I'm worried about, it's more the singing."

I smirked. "You can't sing?" I couldn't imagine him doing anything wrong, ever.

Oliver shrugged, his eyes moving down to my lap. "What's in the notebook then?" I felt my hands fingers spread over the front cover, wrap around it.

"Just...songs I wrote."

"You're a songwriter?"

I nodded.

"Can I have a read?" Literally, I would have let's this boy take them and pass them off as his own if he let me touch the tip of my nose with the tip of his nose. But instead, I smiled awkwardly, and hung my head. "It's alright, I understand. Save 'em for the big wigs in there."

"Number 79?" The woman was back with her hair in a bun and a pen behind her ear. Couple of more hours and she would have taken her heels off and have coffee stains on her collar.

Oliver shifted in his seat. "That's me." He turned to me, his eyes melting me faster than a burning sun. "Hey, hope I see you on the other side. Good luck."

"Thanks, you too." The words managed to worm out of my mouth, as I watched his ass sway into the room and behind the now closed door. I was going to throw up, right there on the eye sore of a carpet.

After a few short minutes, the woman came back out, and all the colour drained from my skin. I was the white essence of a boy, clutching a scabby little notebook with dreams bigger than himself.

"Number 80?"

I stood up, and I don't remember the rest.