Art | Harry Styles

3

He's shy. He always has been - his mum had always pushed him, gently, to venture out, and to meet new people. His mum always knew he was different - it was clear when he refused to play footy with the neighbours outside, and didn't fancy a kick about with the boys at school. Instead he trailed his fingers over delicate rose petals, stealing the old camera from the desk in the living room and snapping photographs from all angles. He was clever - he had a love for writing almost as strong as his love for art. Art, of all kinds. From paintings, to drawings, to sketches, to photographs; he loved it all. Wherever he went, he sought beauty in each and every thing he saw. In people, too - he saw the light in each person, though unaware of it. He was hopeful, and often shot down because of such.

It's Friday night, at 7:55, and he's walking. His black skinny jeans with a tear in the right knee are paired with a white t-shirt, his brown boots and a blue coat. His short nails, though painted black only days ago, were now patchy due to his mindless picking at them, but his slender fingers still remained ring-clad - he often argued with his sister when she said they looked silly that he felt naked without them.

The gallery is a ten minute walk from Harry's apartment, according to his phone, and he, of course, chooses to follow it. It's cold, the darkness only just beginning to skim over the sky, due to Summer having not quite drawn to a close yet. His eyes water slightly, the jet-lag he was enduring having sent him into an unplanned afternoon slumber, waking him less than half an hour previous to his departure from his apartment. 

There's a loud chatter coming from the building as he approaches it, pushing a hand through his curls and pursing his lips. He hovers at the entrance, unsure of whether to enter, or to choose the more cowardly option he'd been considering - to find a nearby bookstore and bury his nose into a novel. But instead, he finds himself at the entrance - scared.

The door flies open, sending Harry's heart plummeting to the bottom of his stomach in shock as two teens stumble out of the room in fits of laughter, clutching their stomachs as they exclaim about something being 'so fucking stupid'.

He frowns, his ring-clad fingers wrapping around the door now slightly ajar, as he now notes the chatter becoming increasingly louder as he nears it. 

The doorway is open, simply a door-shaped carving in the white wall, a well-lit room on the other side of it. Yet still, he doesn't dare peer into it, a slight wave of anxiety beginning to settle in his stomach. 

The chatter dies down, and Harry curses under his breath, realising it would've been easier to have entered in the midst of all the chatter, but now he stands isolated outside of the room, as a voice booms over the now silent room.

"Good evening, guys!" an American accent sounds through the room, seemingly a laid-back, relaxed tone. Far different from the emotions occupying Harry's mind - the polar opposite, actually.

"I don't need to introduce myself to you guys, do I?" the guy continues to sound confident, as the crowd erupts into cheers. This clearly isn't a regular gallery opening, or at least what he's used to. 

"Welcome to our exhibition, ladies and gentleman, and thank you for spending your evening with us," he continues, and Harry peers his head around the doorway, now. The room is large, a crowd of people with their backs to him, and this talking man front and centre - grey-blonde hair framing his face which held a look of such confidence that Harry wouldn't dream of mirroring.

"Here at Pineview Art Gallery, we revel ourselves in those whose talents remain unknown, not only to all of us," he pauses, making brief eye contact with Harry who quickly darted back behind the wall, shielding himself from view, "but to themselves, too."