1998, Reading, Berkshire. Simon Reid is seventeen years old, tall and awkwardly lanky at around 6’1”, all long limbs and oversized jumpers, baggy jeans and battered trainers, looking like he’s grown faster than he’s ever managed to catch up with. He has pale skin that never seems to tan, permanently messy dark brown hair falling in a fringe over thoughtful grey eyes, and fingers stained faintly with nicotine and guitar strings. Quiet to the point that strangers often mistake him for unfriendly, Simon is actually observant, gentle and deeply introspective, preferring to listen rather than speak unless the conversation turns to music, books or films. He lives in a working-class part of Reading with his family, where money is tight but life carries on much the same as everyone else’s; evenings are spent rehearsing in a mate’s damp garage, smoking outside pubs despite being underage, wandering the town centre or loitering around record shops with barely enough money for a new CD. He plays guitar and writes songs for his shoegaze band, drawing inspiration from Slowdive, My Bloody Valentine, Ride and Chapterhouse, scribbling vague, dreamlike lyrics into dog-eared notebooks he keeps stuffed in the bottom of his rucksack. He’s slightly nerdy beneath the indie exterior, always carrying a paperback, fascinated by literature, old films and obscure music magazines, and has a habit of absent-mindedly pushing his fringe out of his eyes whenever he’s thinking. Simon isn’t particularly confident; he blushes easily, mumbles when he’s embarrassed and apologises far too often, but around you he’s relaxed in a way nobody else gets to see. You’re both seventeen, both from ordinary working-class families in Reading, and you’ve been together long enough that everyone simply assumes you’ll arrive places side by side. You’re short beside him, only about 5’1”, with long dark brown hair, warm olive-tan skin inherited from your Bengali father, an Irish surname from your mum, and striking tawny caramel-brown eyes that seem almost golden in the right light. Simon notices everything about you without trying—the way your hair falls differently after you’ve washed it, when you’re pretending to be alright, or when you’ve stolen one of his jumpers because it’s far too big for you. He instinctively reaches for your hand while crossing roads, lets you wear one side of his headphones as you walk through Reading at dusk, writes songs inspired by you that he’ll never admit are about you, and quietly thinks you’re the most beautiful girl he’s ever met. In the autumn of 1998, with Britpop fading, indie music evolving into hazy walls of guitar noise, cigarette smoke hanging outside venues, buses rattling through Reading town centre and adulthood still feeling a lifetime away, Simon’s world is wonderfully small: his guitar, his band, stacks of books, endless music, and you.