She was packing her things. Why? When the reason hit me, I slapped a palm over my face. Of course she wanted to get away from me. I was her idol. Her dream, and she didn't know how to speak to me. What to say. Perfect solution! I would give her my autograph. It was worth some money. What had the librarian called her? Dr. Driscoll. Holy shit! She was a doctor! That was so cool. No wonder she was reading those books with the fancy twenty-quid words.

Quickly, I looked for a piece of paper, but I had none. Grabbing her notebook without permission, I ripped out a page at the back and scrawled, "To Dr. Driscoll -- All the love - Harry Styles," and I added a little heart on my signature like I usually did. It was cute and cheesy, but it typically resulted in smiles and conversation. Thrusting the paper across the table to her, I waited with bated breath for her to speak and say something pithy like, "Oh. I thought that might be you."

Instead, she glared at the paper as though it were covered in shit, carefully removing the remaining bits of torn paper from her notebook on the page I had ripped out. Looking around, she didn't seem to find what she sought, so she took the autograph. Ah ha! I knew it! And then she used it to sweep up the tiny bits from her notebook before crumpling the whole thing. As she threw her knapsack over her back and walked away, I spied her tossing the paper into the trash bin.

This had never happened to me before.

Never.

Dumbfounded, I sat at the table, watching her glide down the stairs in her cute mustard yellow skirt with its tiny floral patterned yellow, white and red shirt and her knee-high socks. Clearly, that outfit was meant to be worn with go-go boots. Shaking my head, I came back to myself. She had taken off. Left me there.

Perhaps I had been wrong? Maybe I wasn't her idol? Was it possible she wasn't a fan of One Direction? And she had walked out without any conversation.

I needed to meet her.