Exposure • h.s.

CHAPTER33.

Venice Beach, a long stretch of sand and sea-salted winds, a setting that holds all the promise of an idyllic day, suddenly turns into the stage for a potential disaster.

And it's just absurd that this drama has chosen my name to star in it.

Harry's emerald eyes shoot onto me, and inadvertently, I drop the silly souvenir that I had bought right outside the eyeglass store. Along with it, scatter of the good feelings that had filled my heart until that very moment, Harry's teasing, the light-heartedness of the evening.

"Mabel Donovan, that bitch".

And, honestly, I kind of feel like a dumb bitch, considering that, after hearing those words, I start trembling like a leaf in the wind, frightened at the thought of being (once again) mobbed by a ferocious crowd of people, desperately searching for Harry or, perhaps, fiercely hunting me down.

We're inside the store now, the bright artificial lights casting a glow on Harry's face, making him appear so tense that he could be mistaken for a gnarled tree trunk, further revealing his features even more distinctly.

The shop owner, an elderly, portly man, with a pair of reading glasses hanging around his neck, another perched on the bridge of his nose, and even a pair of glasses on his head, gazes at us in disbelief. Witnessing a guy entirely bundled up in ten layers of clothing and a girl turning as red as a tomato, gasping for breath while slamming the store door shut as they wedge themselves between the shelves packed with merchandise, is not exactly reassuring for onlookers.

"Can I help you?" the owner grunts, momentarily ceasing his eyeglass presentation to a guy with curly hair and a black satin shirt who has his back to us.

"No, thanks. We're just looking around," Harry replies, while I stand there, speechless.

I turn my attention to the shop window. The small group of people lingers a few meters away from the door, huddled together in conversation. Some have their phones at the ready, presumably to snap pictures or shoot videos of me, likely to stoke the flames of the already fiery hatred that much of the world holds for me, all because I've been connected to Harry, sharing an alleged relationship that doesn't even exist.

The store owner shoots us a suspicious look, surveying us from head to toe; he's wary, perhaps worried that these two improbable customers (us) might decide to steal something.

If only he knew why we're here...

"Now what?" I ask Harry. He's now slipped into an aisle in the store, pretending to show interest in a colorful array of eyeglasses laid out before him like a plastic rainbow.

"I'm not sure, for fuck's sake. I just can't be seen," he responds, agitated, or I'd say, uncontrollably agitated. In the midst of this hectic exchange of words, it feels like our mutual resentment, jealousy, embarrassment, and discomfort have momentarily taken a back seat. The only thing that matters now is the shared act of trying to escape once again from this absurd situation, our unlikely alliance.

"Even if there are no paparazzi?" I ask, attempting to add some semblance of sense to this absurd situation we've found ourselves in.

"Indeed," he confirms.

From what I've gathered, piecing together the bits I managed to extract from both Harry and Zayn, everything about Harry – from the way he talks, how he presents himself, and even his public appearances – is planned down to the finest detail, it's all carefully orchestrated.

His words echo in my mind like a thunderclap of revelation.

Harry is nothing more than a manufactured image.