Am I dead? I think I'm dead.

My ears are bleeding from the high pitched shrill that's coming from this girl's mouth. There are dogs on the other side of the country who rear their heads, who are barking to the sky.

A few people near the club turn to the noise, because a girl screaming in the middle of the nights is always cause for concern. I've been taught about leaving girls alone when they're walking home, that even with good intentions, she won't know for sure. And now, I'm sat at a bus stop, dead middle of the night, with a teenage girl who's fucking screaming.

"Jesus, people'll think I'm attacking you!" I find myself scooting further away, my back pressing into the glass of the bus shelter. The girl slaps her hands over her mouth, and she starts breathing heavily instead of screaming. Its better, and I give her a minute.

I turn up the collar on my jacket, but if anything it makes me look more like a vampire than a famous person trying to hide from people.

"You're...you're...oh my God. OH MY GOD. YOU'RE MY FAVOURITE." I don't know if it's supposed to be a whisper or a scream but somehow it comes out as both. I smile, telling myself that she's just overwhelmed. If I saw Alex Turner or Matty Healy in this situation I'd probably be the same; they're fucking gorgeous and they play a good tune.

Her eyes start watering, her face becoming blotchy in the light.

"Oh...come on now, it's alright." I don't know whether to go closer to her, maybe hug her? Am I even allowed? She looks like a minor, and her parents aren't around. Nope, I'll just stick to this end of the bench.

She carefully moves her hand away and her mouth is stretched open like she can't help it. She's got braces on. Yep, definitely a teenager.

"I love...I love your music." Her shirt has Purple Envy on it, so does her back pack, I'm pretty sure she's wearing Purple Envy socks as well. She has a necklace on with our logo dangling off her throat.

"Yeah, I can tell."

She blushes, before composing herself a bit more. And when she begins shuffling over to me, the hair on my skin stands on edge. This is so dangerous; I'm worried for the both of us.

Because the image of me in the media can be so different in real life. I mean, yeah, I think I'm a nice person, and I do love the fans. But I can't know for sure if they know I smoke, that I like to swear a lot and that I'm impatient, brutish, and horny. This girl will have a perception of me created through interviews and paparazzi photos and Twitter. She doesn't know me, but she knows a version of me.

Has any person been in this situation before? Should I whip out some sunglasses and ignore her? Should I hug her and say I should appreciate her and all those things that people write fanfiction about?

What if she asks questions about my life? Is it rude to not answer them? Is it invasive if I do? Whose trust am I betraying? What the fuck is going on?

Her hand grips her phone, which is shaking. "Can I...take a selfie?"

"Aww love," She keeps giggling at my accent, which is making me smile though. She has such a strong American accent, it reminds me a little of Parker's. "I would, but..." I'm sweating, I'm smashed and stink of alcohol, I'm alone. "...this isn't the best time. I can sign something if you want, eh?"

She nods furiously, and shoves a Sharpie into my chest, turns around so that the back of her white t-shirt is facing me. I squiggle my shitty autograph. When we both sit back down, she is significantly closer and won't stop staring. I suddenly feel like a very irresponsible older brother.

"Celebrities come here a lot but I never actually see them. Oh my God, I actually literally love freakin' living here." Christ, she even sounds like a teenager. I just laugh nervously, though I admit we're both feeling a little more relaxed now. She's not as young as I thought she was, maybe not fourteen, maybe sixteen. Still fucking young though.

"What're you doing out so late?" Trying to steer the conversation away from the fact that I'm Scott fucking Connors sat at a bus stop with apparently my biggest fan which is tougher than I thought, because when it seems that I'm taking an interest in her, in that way, she starts breathing erratically again. "It's just..it's around 3 in the morning. And you're what... sixteen?"

"Fifteen." She nods, calming down. "I'm going to my mom's. I had an argument with my dad."

"Oh." It hits me hard. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"It happens a lot, no biggie. My night just got so much better anyway!" She beams, and I wonder if her mum knows she's waiting for a bus and talking to a strange foreign boy whose world is tilting like he's on a boat. "I'm Francis."

"I'm Scott." And we both laugh because she fucking knows, Scott.

"I just wanna say," She breathes deep again, like she might make a speech. "Thank you so much for what you do. I just...your music is the best thing in the world. I'm like in love with all of you." Francis stops, realises what she's just said, and blushes. "I didn't mean to say that."

"It's alright. You're not really my type anyway." Diffusing the tension this way is working, I feel my shoulders roll back.

"Oh I know. I mean...God, I saw all that shit on Twitter and...I didn't retweet any of it. I support you 100%. I mean, my friend Becky's a bit disappointed because she has a huuuge crush on you but you know... it's not a big deal."

'All that shit' is what's making me avoid Twitter like the plague. I just nod, causally glancing at the passing cars and jumping at headlights, thinking they're camera flashes.

"Thanks, you should give me your Twitter handle, I'll follow you if you like?"

"YOU WOULD DO THAT? OH MY GOD." Tears roll down her cheeks as I get out my phone. "It's...umm..." Francis coughs. "@kingscottc. I know it's stupid I just really love you."

I smile, tapping into the search box. "Nah, it's alright. It's nice." I hit follow and Francis' phone pings and she squeals. I look at her profile though and all I see is my face. My face pressed again Parker's face. Her profile picture, her background photo, the tweet itself is even pinned to the top of her profile. "Wow." I haven't looked at the picture in a while. I didn't know I was smiling into the kiss, I didn't realise how happy I looked.

"I'm sorry I just...it's a really cute photo. But if it's super weird I'll take it down." Francis starts tapping on her phone.

"No, Francis. It's fine. You can do what you want with your Twitter." I stare at the picture for a little too long, until it looks blurry and I remember I'm drunk and sat next to a teenage fan. I put my phone away. "Why did you argue with your dad?"

"Oh," Francis looks disappointed that we're not talking about me anymore. "He just wants me to do loads of stuff and be the best and when he gets angry when I'm not. I got a bad Math grade on my report card. I'm not very good at Math. I dunno, I got a really good grade in English, but he only cares when they're bad." She shrugs, starts twisting a curl of her black hair around her finger. "We don't talk that often since I live at my mom's, but I was supposed to be spending some time with him but...he kinda ignores me most of the time."

Shit. She looks so sad when she says this, that I can feel my features match hers. It's a bit too close to home, and I know that she has no idea about that. My relationship with my dad has been able to stay off the internet, yet my dick size has been tweeted about at length a lot recently.

"What grade did you get in English?"

"A+, but in Math I got a C."

"C? That's still right good." I smile. "I scraped a D in my GCSE's. But a C is a pass in Britain...I don't know about here."

She shakes her head. "It's not an A though so my dad gets angry." There's large head lights in the distance, and Francis' eyes widen when she realises it's her bus. "Oh no! I still have so much more to talk to you about! I'll just miss this and get the next one."

"Is there a next one?" We both glance back at the bus timetable and this is it. She stamps her foot.

"Are you getting on too? We can sit together! I want to tell you my favourite songs! We can Snapchat my friends!"

I laugh. "I might get a taxi. I can't have too many people recognize me." The bus slows down when it reaches us, and Francis stands half off half on it until the driver starts shouting at her.

"Thank you again, Scott Connors! I can't wait to tell the others at school next week."

"No one'll believe you, Francis."

She does a weird giddy dance every time I say her name, it's fucking hilarious. "I know, but I'll know. That's enough." And then she gets on the bus and it drives off. She waves at me from the window and I half heartedly do it back, before flagging down a taxi.

.....

When my life becomes my own again, I lie my back flat onto my king size bed in my hotel room. Hey, king size bed for King Scott C I guess. Everyone's doors are closed. I can't hear anything, not even Demitri's headboard banging against the wall (I've heard it before and I recorded and sent it to every roadie on our home tour).

In my drunkenness I think about slunking to Oliver's door and maybe trying something. The way he sleeps is something magical that I might want to see it again, to feel it again. But instead, I switch on the telly and sit up, and of course it's Dawn Senate, huddled together on the couch and chatting with James Corden on a catch up channel. I, and many other Brits, feel cushy that we knew him before this, back when he was writing and starring in Gavin and Stacey, before carpool karaoke and chatting to some of the most famous names in the world.

Parker's sat on the end, the others looking more uncomfortable than him though. James keeps the invasive questions to himself, but every time he directs a question to Parker, the others shoot daggers at him. Keep your answers short, don't show us up.

Parker just smiles smugly and makes more room for himself on the couch, and I find myself ringing him.

"Are you shitting me? It's almost 5am." His voice is groggy and kind of sexy. I stare up at him on the screen. "Is this a booty call? Because I know for a fact you're in Vegas, man."

"I think you should leave the band."

"What?"

"Leave the band. I'm watching you on James Corden now, they're bellends, Parker. You can do so much better without them."

I hear him shuffle, maybe getting out of bed or just sitting up. "In case you've forgotten, Scottie; I'm not the talent like you, I'm the eye candy. I'm just here to look good, that's the only thing I can do pretty well."

I smirk. "That's a lie. I know firsthand there are other things you can do pretty well."

"Can you get famous from them?"

"Course, it's called porn." Parker sighs and laughs. I hear his TV turn onto the same channel as mine. There's an echo through our phones of the band and James now playing some dumb game that neither of us even care about.

"Anyway, are you drunk?"

"Plastered, mate."

"Plastered. Shit, can't you just get a cab and come to Beverly Hills?"

"Would you want me there?"

"All the time." I start to feel like how Francis felt. I can feel myself getting giddy.

"I'm gunna sleep or throw up now. Think about what I said."

"I will." There's static between us, not caused by a poor connection or the TVs that are buzzing in the back ground. I feel like he wants to say something that's lingering on the tip of his tongue. It's on mine too, and I know what it is, because it's buried in my stomach too and in my chest, it made me call him at 5AM when I didn't need to, but because I wanted to.

"Night, Parker."

"Night, Scottie."