“So we’ll have you sitting here, Harry, and Zane will be across from you,” the production assistant orders me around and I follow the directions closely.

The sun is barely setting behind the rocky mountains of Palm Springs, casting an orange glow over the rental we’re at.

Since I’m headlining Coachella this week and next, and my brand new album is coming out next month, the press never stops. Today I’m doing an interview with one of my favorites. Zane is always very considerate and easy to talk to, never prying or interrupting. So where I’d usually dread the whole ordeal, I’m actually quite content.

“Hi, Mr Styles?” you pop up in front of me, looking comparable to a frightened deer. “I’m Zane’s assistant. He wanted me to give you the list of questions he has for today just incase you wanted to nix some of them.”

You hold out a stack of question cards, holding them out to me. I smile appreciatively and go to grab them from you, but my movement seems to elicit a reaction from you. The cards drop from your hands and flutter to the floor. We both reach down to grab them, forcing our hands to brush.

“Sorry,” we both mutter at the same time.