The Me You Can't See (H.S)

22

Haven's POV:

Have you ever wished you could beat yourself? Punch some sense into your dense head, because that is what I'm feeling at this very moment.

I'm staring at myself in the mirror trying to make sense of what happened in the past 30 minutes. He kissed me. . .again, and this time I feel nothing but butterflies. Don't get me wrong, Malcolm's phantom voice rings in the back of my mind but the feeling of Harry is stronger than any negative thought I can come up with on my own.

He stopped when I did, respected that I wasn't ready and didn't even suggest the idea again. He will never know how much that meant to me. He heard me and despite what he wanted to do, he did everything he could to make me feel comfortable. He puts on a tough exterior, with the tattoos and dark clothing, you wouldn't expect it from someone like him. He is the person your parents told you to stay away from. . .if you had parents who cared enough.

But yet in the past 30 minutes, he's shown me more respect than Malcolm did in my lifetime. Deciding that I've been holed up in his bathroom long enough I make my way out. Shutting the door behind me, I walk the distance to his stairs when I pass by a half-open door, the contents inside immediately make me halt in my step.

I look around for any signs of Harry before entering. I know I shouldn't be snooping and I'm not intentionally doing it but what's inside is too amazing to just walk past as if it didn't exist.

Beautiful things are meant to be admired and both Harry and his art deserve this same treatment. Peering into the room, the door creaks slightly as I push it open and enter.

In front of my eyes lies various canvases with various paintings. The walls are covered in paint swatches blended together to form jaw-dropping pieces. The floor is draped with a colourful cloth meant to catch all the excess paint that drips off the brushes held by a hand that wields an incredible talent.

I remembered how he reacted when I complimented his art that night on the cliff as if he refused to believe the truth behind my words. But looking at every unfinished piece in front of me and every sketch that litters the floor I can't understand how any doubt can run through his mind.

"You're not supposed to be in here." someone calls from behind me. I didn't hear nor realize that someone else had entered too enraptured by the images in front of me I refuse to look away.

I stand there staring as I see Harry come to stand beside me from the corner of my eyes. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snoop but I couldn't help it. The door was open." turning my head to look at him he keeps his eye lined up in front of him.

"I must have forgotten to lock the door." he mumbles coldly. Watching him I see how he look at his art with disgust in his eyes, maybe even anger and I can't for the life of me understand why.

"It's breathtaking. Why would you lock this up?" I turn my head back around to face the paintings. There laying on the barstool in front of a canvas lays a palette with various oil paints, that seem to have been used recently. 

"It's colour on a blank slate. There's nothing special about it." he leaves his spot beside me walking up to the canvas and running a finger along the dried paint.

"No, it's not and you know that. I refuse to believe that you truly think that." I walk around the large room, pulling apart finished paintings and drawings that have been tossed aside like a birthday card from someone you hate, each one better than the next.

"And why's that Sunny. That's what art is, isn't it? Colour on a canvas." he questions me and I can feel his gaze linger on me as I make my way around the room.