FLASHING LIGHTS | ONE DIRECTION

II. Notes of Deception

The stale aeroplane air tasted like recycled dreams as Maeve slumped in her seat, her nose buried in a suspicious dog-eared paperback titled "The Art of Deception." Beside her, Olivia, a human glitter explosion with a phone case that seemed to play every One Direction song on repeat, excitedly scrolling through photos of the band. Across the aisle sat Nadia, a quiet observer with an air of cynicism that clung to her like a well-worn leather jacket.

The descent into LAX was a blur of flickering airport lights, and Maeve's stomach churning with a cocktail of excitement and apprehension. This wasn't just a trip to LA but a plunge into a world she'd carefully constructed boundaries around. One Direction wasn't just a band to her; they were friends, confidantes, a secret tucked away in a dusty corner of her childhood attic. Now, she was about to be thrown into a house filled with supposedly their biggest fans, forced to pretend to be one of them. The irony was sharper than the flimsy plastic aeroplane cutlery.

As the plane touched down with a shudder, Olivia cheered, clapping her hands with the enthusiasm of a toddler at Disneyland. Ever the stoic, Nadia offered a dry "Finally." Maeve forced a smile, her stomach twisting into a knot.

Disembarking, they were ushered towards a waiting car, a sleek black monstrosity that screamed "rockstar treatment" a little too loudly for Maeve's liking. A woman with a tightly coiffed ponytail and a clipboard that gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights introduced herself as Tiffany, their "talent coordinator" for the show's duration. Her smile seemed a little too practised, a little too eager.

The drive to the beach house was a blur of palm trees, billboards advertising the latest Hollywood blockbusters, and Olivia's incessant commentary on potential filming locations for the upcoming reality show. Every rustle of leaves, every flash of a car's headlights, sent her into a frenzy of speculation. Nadia, meanwhile, plugged in her earphones, creating a world of her own filled with the rhythmic thrum of bass and the gravelly voice of some indie singer Maeve had never heard of. Maeve stared out the window, a strange mixture of melancholy and morbid curiosity washing over her.

The beach house, perched precariously on a cliff overlooking a churning ocean that mirrored the turmoil in her stomach, was everything reality show contestants could dream of or have nightmares about, depending on their perspective. An infinity pool shimmered under the California sun, a sprawling patio beckoned with plush seating designed explicitly for gossip sessions, and the intoxicating scent of freshly baked cookies wafted from an open kitchen that promised late-night fridge raids and whispered secrets.

Inside, the air thrummed with nervous energy. Two other girls, a fiery redhead named Riley with a tongue that could pierce steel and a shy brunette named Sarah, who looked like she'd rather be curled up with a good book than living in a fishbowl reality show, were already sprawled on a plush sofa, their faces a mask of either excitement or fear. Introductions were a whirlwind of awkward smiles, forced small talk, and the ever-present buzz of cameramen hovering around like hungry mosquitos.

It wasn't until Riley, with the enthusiasm of a puppy chasing its tail, asked about everyone's favourite band member that the air crackled with a different kind of tension. Maeve's mind went blank. "Uh," she stammered, caught off guard. "I... I like all of them equally?" It was a blatant lie but the safest option under the circumstances. Nadia let out a snort, a single word escaping her lips like a well-aimed dagger: "Liar." Maeve's cheeks burned with shame. Was it that obvious? Riley, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension, launched into a passionate defence of Niall Horan, her voice rising an octave with each sentence, showering him with praise for his quirky charm and dazzling smile.

Just then, the door swung open, revealing Tiffany and a man with a weary smile and eyes that held the glint of a seasoned reality TV show producer. Tiffany announced this was Derek, the show's mastermind, the puppet master pulling the strings that would control their every move for the foreseeable future. He launched into a spiel that felt more like a carefully rehearsed monologue than a genuine welcome, detailing the competition, the challenges, the manufactured drama, and, of course, the grand prize: a chance to accompany One Direction on their Where We Are Tour, a dream come true for any Directioner. The girls erupted into a cacophony of screams, each vying for their moment in the spotlight. Maeve, however, remained silent. The prize, a dream come true for millions, felt like a gilded cage to her. It wasn't the prospect of fame or fortune that bothered her; it was the constant scrutiny, the inauthenticity, the potential exposure of her secret. A secret she'd guarded fiercely since a chance encounter with Niall years ago, a secret that had blossomed into a silent friendship, a stolen moment in time.