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Hey, directioner!

    Nothing else is like those teen times, isn't? Today we are married with kids, or maybe, only one, with the excuse of a better life; we work five or six days a week, to have it filled the void of a real happiness, with material things, or just with a occupied mind, so we won't notice that life has been crap since when it has become too serious.
   On a rainy Sunday, you see on the evening news that Zayn Malik died of respiratory problems and the funeral will be on Tuesday. Your husband looks at you for seconds and tears trickles down your cheeks. Zayn was your "platonic husband", the one that you always dreamed of knowing, embrace, staring eyes-colored honey as he smiles or simply take a photo and get an autograph to rub in the face of those who never believed it would happen.  In the end, your mate gets up, going to the room, after all, the next day has more bills to be resolved in a financial company or clients to be saved from jail.
   A week goes by, and no one speaks of the sweet boy who was Zayn. You ask yourself "boy"? He was no longer a boy, was a married man, with children, who stopped to sing for many, many years ago, and that made you cry when it happened, remember?
   On Saturday, your husband and your son leave teh house, so they can play football, and let you at home alone. After hearing the noise of the car leaving the garage, you run downstairs into the room and go to your closet, to find a box of plastic. Magazines, posters, cds, photos, t-shirts, letters and notes, about the band, were there. You get the cd, and put close to your body, as a child taking their books to school, so excited, so curious, so captivated by the "unknown". The dvd was on the shelf, that soon was on and playing the songs that once cradled your crying, dancing like an idiot all over the house, others will make you laugh. You watch the show again, reminiscent of songs that were saved all that time in your head, but for some reason were never sung in the bath, or while you wash dishes or cook.
   Become a fan is something funny, something intense, is something that makes you think, and for some reason, should not be forgotten. Become a fan makes you happy, makes you stupid, but every little thing, it's a part of you. One day, they will get married, have kids, dismantle the band, and you'll remember when you swore to auction his kidney, on Ebay, to be able to go on the concert, but you didn't do that, of course. Some were grounded, others had no money and some simply forgot how it made you laugh. 
    Harry married a Playboy girls, younger than him, had no children and produces new artists to success, Liam is a wonderful father, since his wife died giving birth to their twins. Louis... Louis the wacky, that never changes, and never married. Niall became a chef and also has no wife, but adopted a boy, who's the passion of his life. For some reason, when you search it on the internet, you will open an idiotic grin on your face, and you will think of the friends that you made on Twitter, the fights with other fandoms, when songs from the new albums were leaked and everyone was screaming and everything.
   You know, one day everything will be gone too, no one will understand your tears, your laughter, or even your dancing. Hopefully that day, you understand that nothing comes back, everything was intense as could be, but now it's over.
   Remember that look in your dad's face when you was dancing "Kiss You" in your room? That funny thing that you saw in a video diary, like a pigeon called Kevin? Well, you'll remember.
   Your life returns to normal for a month, but then you come back to read fanfictions, listen to music, watch videos, draw their names on the wrist and all those things, or even humming WMYB or LWWY. Then you discover that they returned to sing together in a pub, in London, in Zayn's memory. Undoubtedly, you go there. You're fired, but who cares? Sometimes you have to make sure , not reason.
   Harry, Liam, Louis and Niall are with sunglasses, and you understand that is for the Malik. Some songs go by and you smile, cry in some parts and then, your legs tremble: They were part of your imagination for about three years, and now they were there, real, not in print or online photos.
   It's not just a band, it's a little part of me, so you have to enjoy now.

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