𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑! | harry styles

𝐗𝐈𝐗

THE Renaissance room has never been one of my favorites in the museum, but there's one painting that I'm absolutely fascinated with.

I refuse to look at the name or who the artist is because I want to just look at it. I don't want to know any other information other than what I see before me.

A mother is giving her child a bath. They're understandably completely obsessed with each other. The baby looks at his mother as if there is no other person on earth. I'm sure that to him, that's true. It's a simple scene with so much poignancy and meaning. I love how the brushstrokes are soft and the canvas seems like a snapshot of their happiness.

It reminds me of my mother and how we've grown closer over the past few months, but still don't have any kind of "normal" mother/daughter relationship. She would never have bathed me as a child. I don't think I would have let her. I much preferred my nanny. She was softer and had more patience. And then I started school, deciding to spend the rest of my growing years abroad. Renee didn't seem to mind that her daughter was so far away, and I certainly didn't question our arrangement.

I know we love each other, but we just have a strange way of showing it. What would that mean for my child? Would I even get that far in life? God, I hope so. I wanted it so badly. But with who?

I smell him before I see him.

Harry soon stands in my periphery. He is surprisingly not in scrubs or work clothes today. He's in a casual gray suit that's unbuttoned and light blue shirt. His shoes are dark brown and shiny.

"What's with the getup?" I ask, trying to not make this awkward.

"I had a lecture to give this morning at TUFTS Dental school."

"Oh," I nod, "you look nice."

"So do you," he says.

"The last time I saw you, you were yelling at me in a crowded restaurant."

"No, I think I was groping you at a Red Sox game."

"Oh, that's right. How could I forget?" I just wanted him to bring it up, not me.

"I'm not sorry for that, but I am sorry for my outburst at dinner and the phone call. You took me by surprise and I wasn't prepared to have my heart ripped out that night." He's quiet and still hasn't looked at me.

"Your heart? I told you that I had feelings for you and you ran out faster than I could blink."

"Alyssa," he sighs, "not here. Let's leave so we can talk."

"And go where?"

"Just come with me. Please," he begs, taking my hand. His touch is soft and pleading. His fingers reach out, caressing the skin of my wrist and it's the most intimate contact I've had in months. His eyes nearly bore into mine and he leans in, very close.

"Harry, I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Please, Alyssa. I need to talk to you."

No!

The feminist in me wants to be mad at him. He treated me like shit. He screamed and yelled at me for nothing. I wanted him to suffer; to lie on the shower floor and cry like I did. Or to vomit in the sink whenever I thought about what we had and how it ended. I wanted him to die inside like I did.

But the girl in me can't make him suffer. He's always had too much power. I should tell him no, but I can't. I want to listen to his excuses and feel his touch and roll in bed with him.

"Please, Alyssa." He whispers.

"Okay." I nod.

He grips my hand and leads me through the museum, down the stairs and to the exit. He gives the valet his ticket and we wait, still holding hands, for his car.