In the summer of 2015, the day before I attended the On The Road Again tour concert, I did something deeply embarrassing yet life-changing. To be brief with it: I stalked One Direction. For hours.

You see, my dear friend Carlen had heard some fantastic news the night before the concert. One Direction would be staying at the Raphael Hotel near The Plaza in Kansas City. This could mean only one thing: We had a chance, however small, to track them down and make them fall in love with us. Obviously we were going to take that opportunity.

So Carlen, our friend Ian, and I arrived at the Raphael the night before the show. The hotel owners were tragically unsuspecting of the coming onslaught of Directioners, for at that point things were suspiciously calm. Only me and my squad, plus a gaggle of middle school girls and their mothers, had arrived for the ensuing manhunt.

We gathered on the front patio near the circular drive, sitting in the patio chairs and waiting for a sign, any sign, that One Direction was near.

However, sitting in the hot sun while tweeting incessantly at Niall (who rudely ignored all our pleas for a photo op) grew boring pretty quickly, so, like any good squadron, we decided to check the perimeters. Several times.

The three of us marched around to the back parking garage. Sadly, Harry Styles was not hiding there. There were, however, the vehicles of those fans more devoted than I; girls who researched ahead of time where the band would be staying, and painted their cars with slogans such as “OTRA OR BUST!” and “IRISH YOU WERE NAKED.” You have to admire the determination. Still, since Liam wasn’t chilling at the back entrance in a cool leather jacket, we trudged back around to the front.

By then we were getting hungry, and thirsty. However, we did not want to abandon the scene of the stakeout, so we had no other option but to dine in the Raphael’s restaurant.

Let me paint you a picture: I was sweating profusely, Ian rocked a loose deep V, and Carlen wore a bright yellow T-shirt from Hawaii with “hang loose” emblazoned on the front. This is not a restaurant for any of those outfits.

And then we laid eyes on the menu, and came to the biggest shock of all: A pork chop cost 30 bucks. A tenderloin cost 41.

You, dear reader, may be wondering why we stayed in this restaurant when we had sweat running like a waterfall, smelled of ripe sewer rats, sent off endless weird creepy fan vibes, and were pretty much obligated to drop twenty bucks apiece on unpronounceable entrees. But let me remind you: We were determined. We would stay, by God, as paying customers on this establishment if it meant even the slightest chance of meeting One Direction.

So we scoured the menu for the cheapest options and ended up ordering two slices of carrot cake and a creme brûlée. Let me tell you, that carrot cake was fancy–like Food Network fancy, where they smear some random sauce across the plate with a spoon for no reason. And the creme brûlée was so good it made Ian cry all over his deep V. Plus, we bought ourselves an hour in the AC. Worth it.

After refueling, paying, and receiving countless dirty looks from the waiters and Actual Customers in Nice Clothes, we trooped back outside like the dedicated soldiers we were. The Raphael had been swarmed with Directioners in cute, hip outfits during our absence. Then, suddenly, guess what?! A band member left the building for a run.

I will be honest here. I am not a true Directioner. I do not know any of the boys’ middle names, nor do I know their ages or what city they were born in. So needless to say, I would not have recognized this band member unless a group of middle schoolers had not burst into full-on tears and sprinted over for a picture. The gang of middle schoolers formed a huge line. Their mothers, too.

At first we hung back, being the sophisticated fans that we are. But then we were like, hey, we need something to show for this afternoon of stalkage. So we lined up too. Here he is. I had to google his name for this post. I'm pretty sure this is Sandy Beales.

Probably ten minutes after this man exited, another band member emerged from the Raphael. We took a picture with him too. Who is he??? At the time I had no clue, but he’s touched One Direction so it’s fine. Now I know he is Jon Shone.

By this point, at least forty girls (plus Ian) were present and ready to track down the five band members, wherever they may have been hiding. Was Harry in a trash can? Who knows! Was Niall on the roof? Could be! Carlen, Ian, and my energy had been rapidly depleting, but the presence of these dedicated fans reenergized us. We exchanged stories about our passionate love for One Direction. We followed each other on Instagram and Twitter (and still follow each other, because 1D love is a powerful thing).

Let me tell you, Directioners are scary AF. Some of the girls were following Twitter accounts that tracked One Direction’s EVERY MOVE and live tweeted every single thing they did. This means that, like any good army, we had live reports coming in every few minutes about the whereabouts of each member. We were able to calculate from which direction they’d be coming, and guess at what their transportation would be.

The one problem was that these reports did not quite match up. Some said they were still at the airport. Some said they’d left an hour ago. Others said we were at the wrong hotel. But there was no time for second-guessing our location. We’d already devoted ourselves to this maneuver.

We refused to give up hope. Some of the girls decided it would be best to split up into two packs in order to cover all possible entrances. We exchanged phone numbers with the promise to call the other group should the band arrive. Then we separated and went to guard our posts.

At this point, it had been nearly four hours. Carlen, Ian, and I had not peed. We were surviving off that one goblet of water and a dessert each. Our phones were dying. One Direction was rumored to be simultaneously in private vehicles, at the airport, on a plane, and inside a different hotel.

The owner of the Raphael had come outside and unceremoniously kicked us off his property (which really angered the Directioner Moms, though they were powerless in the face of his fury). So we were forced to slink around to the back and sit in the grass, keeping vigil over the entrance to the parking garage.

We really wanted to see One Direction. What do they smell like? We wanted to know. And I really do think the three of us could have stayed all night, sharing sips of water with the other Directioners and squatting in the bushes to pee.

But sadly, around 8:00 PM, after over five hours of stalking, our hunger made us cave. So the three of us bid the other Directioners adieu and good luck and went to get some cheeseburgers.

I wish I could say we met One Direction that night in a miraculous display of pure godly mercy, but that is not what happened. In fact, no one got to meet them. It was a cruel twist of fate. After our meal, we did a drive-by of the Raphael. Teenage girls were outside in scores, on the opposite side of the street mostly, waiting, like vultures. It was all-too-familiar, and gave me some war flashbacks.

What made us stalk One Direction for five hours? What made us sit in the July heat, loiter on private property, spend more than $10 apiece on overpriced pretentious dessert food, and publicly embarrass ourselves, all for nothing? 1D. That's what.

It was for the hope that, if and when Niall Horan reads this piece, he will not be creeped out. Oh no. He will instead be deeply flattered. He will finally, truly love me.