I was raised in a household that saw love as something that requires sacrifice-- my parents moved across the world so me and my sister could be born American; my grandfather scrounged for pennies after his premature heart attack so my father could complete medical school, and still, when he failed his licensing examination the first time, laughed and said, "did you at least enjoy the trip to Singapore?" I don't regularly or even necessarily think acts of service is the best love language, but the Aggarwal bloodline has always spread love by pouring ourselves out.
With maturity, I've come to realize this is why One Direction is so sticky-- the older I get, the more profoundly I recognize the pain, mistreatment, and abuse that comes with becoming the greatest boyband of all time at sixteen, and the more I grow attached to these darling boys because of it. While I was dancing to Best Song Ever in my neighbor's bedroom, turning the lights off so the glow-in-the-dark stars taped to his ceiling would sparkle, the bandmates were overworked, exhausted, and traumatized. There was something phenomenological about One Direction; they were tasked with being the keepers for an entire generation's youth, responsible for holding our dreams and faith alongside their own. It's not lost on me that this is as much a burden as it is a privilege, which is why, despite every logical reason not to, I fall deep into One Direction rabbit holes every few months, listening to the live performance version of C'mon C'mon and imaging a reunion tour as though the boys aren't fifteen years older.
A New York Times Breaking News article popped up in my inbox yesterday afternoon, titled "Liam Payne, former One Direction star, dead at 31". When celebrities -- from Matthew Perry to Chadwick Boseman -- die, I try to remember that my sorrow does not compare to those who actually knew them. I find it distasteful to repost jokes about Chandler dying first on Instagram, or to loudly wonder if this means the One Direction reunion will never happen, and can't imagine how frustrating it must be to watch the world mourn a projected image of someone when you're forced to grapple with real grief. But honestly, every shred of my intellectualism about parasocial relationships dissipated as I clicked on this article. I hadn't voluntarily listened to a Liam Payne song since Strip That Down, and frankly had not heard a single positive thing about his character in several years; but still, this is the boy whose music I played living room karaoke to for ten years straight, one-fifth of one-half of my childhood.
I struggle to articulate the hard things, mostly because guilt is the easiest emotion I know-- it's easier for me to pretend grief is reserved for those whose lives are fundamentally changed by death. But it's not. I'm not Liam Payne's son or girlfriend, mother or father. I can go back to class tomorrow, and nothing will have really changed in my life. But I feel the thorn in my shoe, nonetheless. It's allowed to hurt. I've been listening to their old music all day, wondering if it will ever sound the same as it did when it was uncomplicated. I pressed play on 18 as the clock struck midnight on my birthday last year; What Makes You Beautiful was the song I took my heels off for at prom, overjoyed that I could scream and jump to the beat alongside the best people I knew. I'm not sure I know what my life is without this soundtrack, but right now, it feels like all my core memories are touching Sadness from Inside Out and turning blue.
All my complicated feelings about these boys -- fear that they hate each other, hope that they will reunite soon, shame for how badly I want that despite all the pain I know it would put them through -- all pale in comparison to the genuine gratitude I have for the role they have played in my life. Ever since watching Infinity War in middle school, I've thought of Captain America's mantra -- we don't trade lives -- as a core part of my belief system. And so, I can't make any value judgements on whether Liam Payne's career was worth the turmoil he endured because of it. All I can say is that answering that question feels like trading our lives (as fans) for his. And I'm certainly not ready to do that.
In a blogpost from several years ago, I wrote the following about the band:
Yes, these boys were once this young. Yes, this music is that old. Yes, the camera quality was this bad the last time I was here. Yes, while these five haven't spoken to each other in five years, while they've been off growing up and reaching all new career-highs, I've been here. To quote Taylor Swift, right where you left me.
That post (This Goes Awry, if you're curious) was selfishly about me, but re-reading my words, I wonder if the boys ever feel trapped in this way, too. Are they stuck at the age they became famous? Does it feel like their youth was wasted in the band that might've saved my life? Was what they gave up for this life an insurmountable sacrifice? Is this the love we celebrate for being devoted and pure? The kind that bleeds young, precocious, brilliant people dry and shoves them out of windows? The kind that robs us of time and peace, the only nonrenewable resources we really have?
In every interview in which any of the members were asked about a potential reunion, they always responded with something along the lines of, "We're so young, we've got so much time. We'll get to it eventually." I'm not even sure if they truly believed this, or if they said it to keep the fans at bay while knowing that this much-anticipated reunion would never happen. But regardless, it strikes me as strangely ominous now. They didn't have much time, at all. We don't have much time, at all.
Are we happy, knowing we spend it together, anyway?
Rest in Power, Liam.
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