The Silhouette (Zarry) [On Hold]

Uno.

5:46 PM, London.

The red-brown leaf was floating with the wind, trying to fight the gravity of the earth, until it surrendered. Hovering aimlessly, helplessly, above the cabs and sidewalks, caught in a dance of impromptu rhythm and improvised steps until at last, it landed.

The pencil paused mid-stroke, its movement interrupted by the unexpected intruder in its path. Zayn Malik brushed the leaf away with his left hand before sitting back to examine his progress.

He took in the perfectly straight lines forming an exact black-and-white replica of the park around him: the bench he currently occupied, the naked trees, the piles of leaves decaying nearby, the people strolling along. He glanced up from the sketchpad to compare the nearly seamless recreation with its live, three-dimensional counterpart, and he sighed.

How could he possibly fill a blank page with everything he saw? How could he capture the laughter, the sounds, the sadness and desperation with a mere stroke of the pencil? Could he? Was it possible?

The questions hovered above the ever-present ghosts of self-doubt. The need to start over pushed forward; the need to create and recreate until there was nothing left to question. The sheet ripped easily from its spiral binding, became nothing but a crumpled ball of disillusionment, and disappeared into an eternity of discarded attempts.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she said, in a tone that betrayed her lack of sincerity. Her lips brushed against his in a hasty greeting, and she sat beside him, one hand deep in the pockets of her long black coat, the other holding her cellphone.

Bright hazel eyes lingered on the empty-white nothingness of the page. "Is it five already?" he asked, though he was well aware that it was almost six. "Guess I lost track of time." He looked up then, into his girlfriend's blue eyes and searched for something to cling to. "Long interview?"

"No, I had a photoshoot. But it was kinda long, I had to change my clothes seven times, until they decided I should do it nude." She said and left her phone up to his face to show him the pics. "Check it out."

Her small breasts were on full display. While she has a loose hand above her private area. He smiled, trying to feel proud, but feeling a detached sense of resentment instead. "Isn't this the magazine you said you'd never work with again?"

"You know, gotta listen to the worshippers' prayers." she laughed. Her long blonde hair fell into her eyes, and out of reflex, Zayn reached over to smooth it back. She smiled at him, kissed the palm of his hand as it grazed past her cheek. "I'm sorry I've been so busy lately."

Zayn looked at her for a long moment, taking in the beautiful blue eyes. He used to feel a spark in them. Where had that gone?, he wondered. What was left in its place? "It's really okay, Gigi." he said, knowing that he meant it. It's a been a while since he actually cared enough to bother if she's with him or not.

She leaned over to kiss him and he smiled against her lips, tasting the bitter-sweetness of familiarity. He wished he could take a snapshot of that moment and frame it against the darker shadows of his thoughts. He wanted to whisper, "I love you," out of habit, if nothing else. But he stifled the impulse and pulled away.

"So, what were you working on?" She asked, sitting back. Her gaze landed on the notebook on his lap.

Zayn glanced down and shrugged, feeling angry with himself for having nothing to show her. How he wished he could make something wonderful appear in the empty surface of the page, just so she could see that she was not the only one with a validated future. Instead, he felt naked, his failure exposed in the implied absence of motivation. "I... I had something, but I threw it away."

Her laugh sounded mocking. "What's the point of that?"

Zayn glanced away, his gaze shifting from the blank page to the sky. She was right. What was the point? "Maybe there isn't one," he said after a moment, looking at her. "Maybe I'm just trying too hard."

"Maybe you should just rethink this whole artist thing," she replied thoughtfully. "I mean, your Dad is spending so much money to send you to NYU, just so you can, what, study art? And you said you're gonna open your second exhibit next week, and with this pace of yours, that's impossible."

She checked her makeup in the pocket mirror she had withdrawn from her bag. "It's not too late to change your mind."

He watched her applying a new layer of lipstick. And he took a cigarette out of his pack, and lit it up.

Zayn drew in a breath. Then suddenly said, "I have to go. I have an appointment with my dentist." The lie filled him with a strange sense of pleasure.

Gigi glanced up. "I thought we were getting something to eat?"

"Well, you were late. I don't have time now." He inhaled another smoke and exhaled it slowly.

"That's real nice, Zayn. You could have told me you had something to do tonight. I would've made other plans."

He rose, rolling his eyes as he did so. "Well, I'm telling you now."

She stared at him, as if debating whether it was worth it to start a fight, as if debating whether or not she cared enough to bother. At last, she looked down and shook her head. "Whatever. Can I come over later?"

The question hung in the air between them like a truce, and Zayn decided it was best to accept it. "Sure."

"Cool. Is Niall going to be there?"

"He's working late."

Gigi smiled. "Then I'll be there early." She kissed him again. "See you tonight."

Zayn stared after her, suddenly lost in what felt like desperation. He looked down at the sketchpad in his hand, resisted the urge to toss it into the wind, to forget for just one moment that his life boiled down to nothing more than empty pages waiting to be filled.

Is that how Gigi saw him, as a waste of time and money? What was the point, she'd asked him. What was the point of trying to capture the trivialities of life, to freeze the natural movements of the world in blocks of lines and shadows?

The leaves at his feet rustled to life, and Zayn watched them struggle senselessly against the pull of the wind. He brushed the scattered strands of black hair from his face, and held the notebook to his chest.

There was no point, he finally decided, moments later, as he started to walk away. No point at all; just the simple, unquestionable fact that this was what he wanted to do.

...

A/N: so this is the first chapter. What do you think?

The next ones would be in Zayn's or Harry's point of view. I personally don't think people like reading in the third person right?

Vote plz and comment.

Lots of love xx