Harry Styles Open Audition Call. 18 Years Or Older.

Bold. White letters on red paper. A declaration of adulthood that felt like a wall. Y/n was sixteen. Young. Determined. Terrified.

The line outside stretched down the block—dozens of girls and guys with guitar cases, portfolios, and wide, hungry eyes. They were older. They had experience. They had parents who probably drove them here and told them they loved them before they left.

Y/n had none of that. Just a voice, a dream, and a lie on the tip of their tongue.

The glass door swung open. A girl with bleached hair and a silver lanyard stepped out, clipboard in hand, and scanned the crowd.

Y/n's heart slammed against their ribs. They had practiced the lie all the way here—memorized a birthday, a fake name, a confidence they didn't feel. But now, face to face with the doors that could change everything, it all felt so fragile.

The line shuffled forward. Two steps. Then three more.

The door was getting closer.