I don't know how it happened.

Maybe it was the stress of the band getting to us. Maybe we were suffering from a swelled head. Maybe we were just growing apart as friends, or that kept trying to force ourselves into something that was no longer there. I don't know.

All I know is that I hate Christopher Martin, and he hates me.

It started off as petty arguments. We'd argue about who got the last Cadbury Button, which restaurant we should go to for lunch, and even who looked better. We started buying more expensive things, each of us trying to impress the other lads, until our budgets grew tight. Phil suggested we all take a few months away from each other, and announced to Twitter that we were going on hiatus. Little did they know that the hiatus would never end.

When we came back, it felt like Chris was a completely different person. I tried to greet him lovingly, but he refused to even let me near him. Embarrassed and frustrated, I didn't speak to him unless I had to.

Our arguments grew worse. We argued over which riff was better, who should sing what part, and what was best for the band. Three of the other band members tried to talk to us, to tell us to stop hating on each other, but nothing was working. Our friendship and our careers were going up in flames, and each little spark grew into a full-fledged fire.

Our last conversation to each other was, of course, an argument.

"Are you daft? There's no way that your riff is better than mine," he told me.

"Chris, you're not the fucking guitarist of the band. Let me make my own riffs. I've been doing this for twenty years."

"You're the guitarist, and no one knows who you are. Why? Because you never know what you're talking about. You're the reason that everyone thinks that A Head Full of Dreams sounds like shit!"

At this point, Will tried to interject, but was cut off by my rage. "I'm the reason? You're the one singing! Ever thought that maybe you didn't sound as good as you did on the other albums?"

"I'm literally the face of this band. Without me, no one would know your fucking names. I don't even need you pillocks. I could go solo and people would still see me as Coldplay. They would see you as nothing!"

My cheeks were burning with rage at Chris' accusation. "Fine, you know what? Go solo then. See if I give a fuck!"

Phil's eyes widened. "Hold on a minute!" He tried, looking to both Chris and myself.

"Fine! You know what? I will! I quit!" Chris said, dropping his guitar on the floor and walking out of the Bakery forever.

Guy and Will looked at me like I was stupid, and maybe I was. I was just glad to have that wanker out of my life for good.

That week they kept trying to get Chris to rejoin the band, but he made it very obvious that he wanted nothing to do with Coldplay anymore. That band was in the past, as was our friendship.

I stand up and walk into the bathroom. I sluggishly shrug out of my boxers and step into the shower, which is cold. I stub my toe on the way in, as I misjudge the height of the tub, and roll my eyes. Looks like it's going to be a great day.

Same old, same old, day after day. Wake up. Take a shower. Go to work. Pick the kids up from school. Go home. Make dinner. Wait for Chloe to pick the kids up. Go to sleep. Repeat. Chris had been right about one thing- we were nothing without him.

We tried to release a new album without him, but Parlophone declined it, saying that without a singer, the music had no meaning.

After that, Phil took to Twitter, saying that Coldplay was officially over. We would never release new music, and we would probably all try to find a job somewhere else in the music industry. Most of us did. Guy found a job as a producer. Will found one as a temporary drummer for solo artists on tour. Phil got one as the manager of a small band, like what Coldplay used to be.

And me?

I got a job as a gardener, something that I used to think I would enjoy. I was so excited when I got the job, until I found out that it barely paid the minimum wage and it required more hard labor than I was willing to do. I had no choice but to keep the job, and it affected me in ways that I was unwilling to admit to.

Chloe got sick of me and dumped me, my kids grew older and stopped relying on me for everything, and everyone except Will has nearly ceased all contact with me. I was alone, sad, and the dictionary definition of a loser. Since I spent so much money trying to impress people when the band was still together, I was struggling to pay the bills. It's been like that since Chloe dumped me. Now, I'm just like every ordinary man in London. There's nothing special about me. Though, maybe, there never has been.

I step out of the shower, sighing, and rub water on my face. My hand travels up to my head, where it's met by a cluster of fluffy curls, and I pause. I feel around my head, and sure enough, there are curls covering the top of my head.

"The fuck...?" I ask, in a voice that I don't recognize as my own. Suddenly frightened, I jerk my head up to look in the mirror, and am met with a pair of icy, blue eyes, staring right back at me.

This face is not mine.

I look around the room and notice that it, too, is not mine. It explains why I bumped my toe on the tub. The tub's sides are slightly larger than those of my own. I must have been too tired to notice it earlier.

"Chris!" A woman calls from another room. "Hurry up! You're going to be late!"

I am not Chris Martin, but I am stuck in his body.

I search through his drawer and put on a green t-shirt with a pair of shorts, as well as a green "LoVe" button to match the green on his shirt. I slip into a pair of runners and jog downstairs, where Dakota Johnson, whom I assume is his girlfriend, is waiting in front of the door.

"God, your record producer is going to be pissed if you're late again," she says, practically pushing me out the door.

Record producer. So he's been working on some new music, just like he said he would be. How did I let this wanker be more successful than me in life?

"Did you forget that you have to do the final recordings today?" She asks, and I just shrug.

She groans, but she doesn't take her eyes off the road. "You are feeling alright, aren't you?"

I bite my lip and nod. What am I supposed to do? Pretend to be Chris for a day? Tell somebody that I'm not who they think I am? Should I sabotage his life?

"You're quiet, that's why I ask. You're usually so energetic in the mornings."

I'm taken back to the days before the band split up, when Chris would always insist on working early in the morning, even though he never got any sleep at night. Guy and I were always the ones who refused to get up any earlier than 11. Sometimes, he would wake us at 5 or 6 in the morning with a new song idea that he had come up with.

I shake my head, trying to get the image out. Chris was a wanker, a complete attention whore, and he probably never cared about any of the band. Why would I bother thinking about him?

"Chris? Maybe I should take you home. You don't look so well."

I shake my head again. "No, no, it's fine," I say, and I notice only then that my voice is the same melodic tone as Chris' is. I already miss my low-pitched, nasally, fucked up voice. I look down to my- er... Chris'- hand, and eye the ring on my finger. It looks like an engagement ring, and sure enough, when I look at Dakota's hand, she's wearing the same, diamond ring on her finger.

Dakota stops the car and sighs. "I'll tell your record producer that you aren't feeling well. I'm sure he'll understand."

"No, I'm fine, I swear," I argue, more eager to ruin Chris' career than stay at his house and feel sorry for myself.

She shakes her head. "There's no way you need to be working today. Come on, I'll make you some tea." She kisses my cheek and turns the car around.

I sigh in defeat. This woman is stubborn, and she has already defeated me.

When we get back to the house, Dakota forces me up to bed, and slowly, I do as she asks me to. I walk around the upstairs hall for a minute, exploring Chris' house, which is much nicer than mine. Even though it's not mansion quality or anything like that (he probably spent too much money on impressing the guys and I to have a house much nicer than what he already had), it's not completely shitty, like my apartment is.

I slip into his queen-sized bed and am left alone to my thoughts. Why am I trapped in the body of this sinful man? Am I dreaming? Should I sacrifice my dignity to call him (me?) and find out if he's experiencing the same thing? How long will this last? Should I act like Chris? Or do I sabotage everything?

I think about Dakota and the stupid rock on her finger. I wonder if Chris really loves her or if he just needed something to make it look like he had a fucking love life, the loser.

When she comes upstairs with some tea and chicken noodle soup, I wonder how such a sweet girl like her could fall in love with such a wanker. Maybe he pays her.

She sets the soup on the table and hands me the tray of tea. "When is your next check due?" I ask.

She gives me an odd look. "Hm?"

"Your check. You know, for being my girlfriend."

I can see the confusion start to turn to anger, and I hold back a smirk. "A check? For being your girlfriend?"

"Yeah, well, even the media knows that you're only dating me for money," I say, trying to make her angry.

She draws back, clearly shocked by my reply. "Chris, what the fuck are you saying?" She asks, anger oozing in her voice.

"I'm saying that there's no way you could love me. I'm a pussy who's only using you for publicity. Why on Earth would you agree to marry me?"

"Oh, so that's all I'm good for then?" She shouts, standing up, but not before slapping me. "You think I only love you for your money? Then Christopher Martin, I'm afraid that you're very wrong!"

I notice tears streaming down her face when she turns back to throw her engagement ring at me. Mission accomplished.

"And don't try calling me, either!" She shouts from down the stairs, and she slams the door on the way out.

I sit up in Chris' bed, only slightly shocked by her reaction. She left very quickly, and I realize that tension between her and Chris must have been building for awhile now for her to leave so suddenly. That doesn't surprise me, but I do feel sorry for the girl.

I force myself underneath of the large blanket and get lost in thought, wondering what tomorrow will be like. Will I still be stuck in Chris Martin's body? Why was I sent here? How can I fix it?

I don't realize that I've fallen asleep until I'm awoken by knocking at the door. I open my eyes and am startled to see that I'm not in my room, until I remember where I am, and I groan. I'm still in Chris' body.

There's another knock at the door and I groan as I throw the blanket on the floor to run downstairs. I open the door and see Phil standing there before me. "Phil?" I ask, as I haven't seen him in probably a year.

He gives me a small smile. "Hey, mate. Dakota said you weren't really feeling yourself, so I thought I'd drop by."

I realize that it's a bit strange that Phil would drop by and not Gwyneth and Chris' kids, but I don't question it.

"I'm fine," I scoff, and wonder why he's over here. He had told me a long time ago that he had ceased all communication with the bastard. Now he was coming over to his house just because Dakota said that he didn't feel well?

Phil rolls his eyes. "Come on, mate, you and I both know that you haven't been the same since the band broke up."

What?

"What do you mean?" I ask, curiously.

He closes the door behind him and walks into the kitchen, as if he's done this every day of his life (and maybe he has). He sets his keys down on the table and I follow behind him.

"Well, you haven't quite been yourself lately. You used to be so upbeat and happy, and now talking to you is like talking to a stone wall," he explains.

His comment makes me wonder what the all-successful Christopher Martin is really like behind closed doors. Is he not as happy and in love as he seems to be?

"Be honest, Chris," Phil says, looking into my eyes (well, really Chris' eyes). I know he's being serious when he sets down the glass of water that I didn't see him prepare. "Do you miss the band?"

Immediately, I shake my head. "Absolutely not," I reply, though not because I mean, but because I think that's what Chris would think.

Still, I wonder...

I glance at the clock on the microwave oven and sigh. "I really need to head to bed," I say, just trying to find an excuse to escape Phil's awkwardness. I feel bad for leaving him so suddenly, but I can't dowse the anger that swirls inside of me with the knowledge that Phil has disobeyed my request to stop seeing Chris.

He looks a bit surprised. "Oh... well, okay. Is it alright if I stay here for the night?" He asks, and I shrug.

"The couch is free," I say, and head up to bed, thoughts swarming my head for the rest of the evening.