Complementary

four

photograph - ed sheeran

zayn

"Would you like some coffee? Or tea, or, like, water?" I stutter as soon as I let us into my apartment.

"Coffee would be nice, please." Carlie says, peeling off her jacket and hanging it on the coat rack beside her with ease.

"Okay, give me a minute to get it going. Just, uh, make yourself at home. Sorry for the mess."

She doesn't reply. I glance at her, watching her walk around and stare at the array of paintings and photographs hanging on my walls, most done by myself. I wonder what she thinks of them as I walk to the kitchen.

"Why the hell aren't you majoring in art, Zayn?" Her voice is heard behind me. "Your photography is great as well, but wow, you are one talented artist."

I turn around to face her. She's sat at my kitchen table, looking around, appearing at ease.

"I don't really know," I mumble. "I guess I didn't major in art because I quite like the idea of finding art in everyday things rather than creating it myself."

Her light eyes dart over to me, her lips parting slightly. "Jesus Christ, you are profound."

I cock an eyebrow at her, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Do you mind if I write down what you just said? The bit about finding rather than creating?" She ignores my question, pulling out a pencil from her pocket and reaching for a paper napkin on the tabletop.

"Um, go ahead." I rub at the nape of my neck bashfully.

"Sorry, I just found that a very intelligent statement."

I offer her a small smile. "Thank you."

"Anyway, why else wouldn't you major in art or at least sell some of your pieces?" She asks inquisitively.

"Drawing and painting are just hobbies and pastimes of mine, I guess. And I have sold some of my work just to pay my rent before." I admit with a light laugh.

She smiles humorously. "Have you always wanted to be a photographer?"

"No, I haven't." I say.

"Me either. Well, I haven't always wanted to be a writer," she pauses as if she's about to tell a story. "I started writing at the ripe age of 16, right after my mother passed. I'm sure Louis has informed you of that by now.

Anyway, at first, my writing was expressive. I used it as an escape, to avoid the crushing feeling of my mother's sudden non-existence. Then I began making up my own stories, which was probably also a bit of an escape route, one could say. At that age, I had just discovered how amazing it is to get lost in your imagination. It is another world at your fingertips, and that is why I'm a freshman in college and I am already aware of my major."

I nod, listening to her every word, hypothetically on the edge of my seat. She just has this way about her. When she speaks, you feel inclined to listen. It's captivating; her words fall from her tongue and hang in the air, lingering there for you to absorb.

"You're pretty profound too, you know." I tell her softly.

She smiles thinly. "It's the writer in me."

I chuckle and turn my attention back to the coffee maker, pouring her a cup. I set it on the table in front of her, along with some sugar and milk.

We sit quietly as she doctors it up the way she likes and takes a sip, grimacing. "This is the worst cup of coffee I've ever had the displeasure of tasting."