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."

His speech continues, and Harry allows his back to remain pressed to the wall, still hidden from any prying eyes. 

"So enjoy our display, and love our artists," the guy finishes, "I know I do."

Chatter begins to arise in the room once more, and Harry takes his opportunity to slip into the room, forming a part of the crowd as everybody began to move around in a clockwise motion, lost in conversation. 

Most people seem to be around Harry's age, maybe a little older - all not very fascinated by the art itself. Harry, on the other hand, had already found great fascination.

Nobody else is onto this piece, yet - just him. And, momentarily, he's glad not to have to share such a sight with anybody else.

A girl; she's beautiful. Her skin is a glowing tan, almost like milky coffee; her hair is dark brown, almost black, curly, rose petals littered amongst the waves. Her teeth are a beautiful white framed by nude glossy lips in one of the three pictures where they're parted into a grin. In the rest, her face is serious - a rose gripped in two long manicured fingers held against her cheek as her eyes, chocolate brown in colour, stare into the camera. 

Harry's fingers fumble with his own camera, which hangs in its typical position around his neck. An array of ideas for his own artworks are racing through his mind - sudden muse, sudden inspiration has suddenly settled and he doesn't want to lose it. His lens extends, and he reaches to capture the image, only to be interrupted by the clearing of a throat.

"No cameras in here."

Harry's eyes dart up in shock, and he lets his camera hang around his neck as it was.

"Oh, uh-I-I'm sorry, um," he stammers, not daring to meet the eyes of the speaker, certain his cheeks are flushing a horrific red by now. 

"It was a joke," the voice is female, and Harry looks up, instantly recognising the face as the one he'd been fascinated with only moments before.

To him, in person, she's even more captivating than she was in the photographs. It's in that very moment when he decides despite the beauty of the photos, they hadn't even began to capture the beauty she possessed in person.

Her skin holds an unbelievable glow, her lips glossy and her smile perfect. Her hair falls perfectly over her shoulders, lacking the rose petals now, but Harry's still tempted to run his slender fingers through it.

"Take pictures if you want," she shrugs with a smile, "it's flattering, really."

"O-Oh, um, no, I just - uh - I liked the flowers, a-and the layout, so," he continues to stammer, but is becoming slightly infuriated with himself. He can't seem to get a word out, properly, he sounds like an idiot meeting a celebrity idol. It wasn't often girls caught his eye, and when they did it was unheard of for them to actually talk to him.

"Oh, so you don't like the model?" she raises an eyebrow, quite clearly in a teasing manner, as he goes to protest his defence, but instead she changes the subject, "you're not from around here, are you?"

"What gave it away?" he forces out a complete sentence, a weak smile accompanying it, "the differing accent or the lack of humour?"

She laughs a little, and he blinks forcedly to stop himself from staring at the sight, "Both, maybe. You can't have been here very long, right?"

"A - um, a couple of days," he nods, fingers fumbling nervously with his camera as he talks, "s-so not long."

"Well, welcome to New York," she says warmly, leaning back against the wall beside the few photographs that are split into canvases on the wall. As she looks at him, he decides that there's no place she fits into more - plastered onto a canvas elevated on the wall of an art museum, where she can be admired and adored.

"Thank you," he smiles gratefully in return, shoving his hands into his coat pockets now, as he repeats, "thank you very much."

"It's no problem.." she trails off, awaiting an interruption.

"Harry," he tells her, "m'Harry Styles."

Her eyebrow arches slightly, almost as if in approval as she gives a slow nod and a small smile now plays on her lips, "Well, Harry Styles, I'm Sophie Ashford."

"It's-" he begins, cut off by the calling of a name across the room, 'Sophie! Get over here!'.

Sophie glances sideways to follow the call, before turning back to Harry, as if slightly unsure of what to do. Though Harry doesn't necessarily want her to go, he decides for her.

"'Was lovely to meet you, Sophie Ashford," he says sincerely, pushing his hair from his face with one of his hands.

"Hopefully I'll see you around, Harry," she grins in response, slowly beginning to edge towards the crowd which continues to call her name, "thanks for liking my face." He pauses, before realising she was noting his obvious admiration for the photographs.

"Thank you for having such a pretty one," he thinks, but ceases to say it out loud. She turns, letting out a single breathy laugh while her grin remains focused in his direction, and he suddenly realises that he had said that out loud. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He wants the ground to open up and swallow him, but instead he quickly turns around, cutting her off from view.

She doesn't mind the slip of a compliment - of course she doesn't. It's not often that she receives one with real sincerity behind the tone of it - it slipped from his mind, he was really thinking it. And rather than celebrate her friend's photographs on the wall which she had been happy to help him with and model for - selfishly, such a compliment and the embarrassed flush of his cheeks played on her mind for the entirety of the night.