Up close, his toned body glistened with sweat. His chest heaved up and down as he breathed heavily. Blood was dripping down his nose, leaking into his mouth. His white teeth were coated with the dark red consistency.
His pale green eyes searched th...
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Harry Styles
That night at Eternal wasn't the first time I had seen Celeste. I recognized her immediately. I don't think I could ever forget her face.
She didn't even see you.
Maria's is a bookstore downtown. I always go there when I finish my current reads. I went to Maria's one day—around three months ago. I went to the section where I always found Stephen King's books. The bell on the glass door rang, to which I immediately looked in. It was Celeste. She was wearing a flowy red dress. Her hair was curled nicely, too. I watched closely as she went to the fiction section. It didn't take her long to pick out a book, she grabbed one then went to the front desk. A teenage boy was working there. She smiled at him as he asked for your name. I could hear the entire conversation. She told him that she liked J.D Salinger, and that he had better books than Catcher in the Rye. The boy nodded as she talked, his nametag said Ethan. He was acting as if he knew what she was talking about.
You're a fucking stalker, Harry.
He didn't.
I went to J.D Salinger's books, and picked out one. Franny and Zooey. I asked him if he had read any of J.D Salinger's books. He said he didn't even know who J.D Salinger was.
That seems ridiculous to me. How do you work at a bookstore and not know who J.D Salinger is? How has anyone not even read Catcher in the Rye?
I remember when I first saw Celeste, and the way she browsed through the books so... delicately. Everything she did seemed delicate. Seemed... soft.
At the beginning, when I saw a girl talking to Niall and Louis, I didn't recognize her. I had no clue that it would be the same girl who was at the bookstore. She had crossed my mind every now and then--but I never thought that I would actually see her again. When she turned around, and I saw her face, I knew. I would recognize those pink lips from anywhere.
As soon as I met her, I could tell how good of a girl she was. She's a good girl. Such a good girl. Everything she did—every movement she made, every time her lips moved when she talked—was just so innocent.
The gap between her thighs, the dark brown in her eyes, her petite arms, the sway of her hips when she walked. Her painted nails. Every time I saw her, her nails were painted a different color.
Her.
I don't know what it was about her that made me feel a certain way. Maybe it was because she was so innocent. No girl that I'd been with ever was innocent. I know how to tell if someone is completely pure—even if they lie, I know.
Celeste is pure.
When she got mad at me when I didn't tell her I was going to San Francisco, I could tell. Celeste cared about me. She showed it, even if it was unintentional. She cared.
