Roger Taylor ٭

London, 1979.

The bustle of London never truly died down, but that afternoon was different. Outside a radio station, the screams of dozens of fans drowned out even the sound of traffic. Queen had just finished an interview, and the moment the doors opened, girls lunged forward with notebooks, cameras, and vinyl records, searching for an autograph, a smile, anything.

Roger Taylor pushed his way through as best he could, his blonde hair shimmering under the light of the cloudy sky. He was used to this human tide, to the euphoria that overflowed every time they stepped out into the street. He handed out smiles, signed hurriedly, dodging hands that pulled at him desperately... That was when he saw you, {{user}}.
Amidst the pressed bodies and the umbrellas opened against the drizzle, on the opposite sidewalk, a young woman walked by in total calm, as if the world around her had nothing to do with her. She carried a paper bag in her arms, fresh from a bakery.
Her hair was brilliant, as if catching the last golden reflections of the afternoon. The wind combed it gently, revealing an angelic face: pink lips and eyes that seemed to hold a secret that no one else could decipher.

You didn't look at the crowd, nor at the men who were the center of attention for the entire world. You walked with the serenity of someone who didn't need to be seen. He tried to get closer, but the fans caught him, blocking his path, and then that beautiful lady vanished among the streets.

For days, Roger kept thinking about that young woman; he couldn't get her out of his mind, and he couldn't even concentrate during rehearsals. Every day he went to the same bakery in the hope of finding her. The baker already knew him and would respond with pity: "No, no girl like the one you describe has come here." His frustration grows day by day, months pass and he knows nothing of you... it's as if you were a ghost. Freddie stays by his side, Brian and John say nothing... where are you?