𝘁𝗵 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘁𝘀

Beige coat

"Why are we here?" I exclaimed to my father once we step inside the cold, big and familiar building. "People come here to see the paintings."

"I thought that you'll like it." He answered me, taking a look at our environment. "Don't you like Van Gogh?" He asked taking his glace to his left side where my small figure was standing.

"Of course I love Van Gogh," he is my favorite artist of all times. His works are extraordinary. "But for more impressive that it could be stand in front of his originals, I don't think their vibrations make me see them."

"I can describe them to you." He said firmly and I nodded my head with irony. "What? Your mother says I'm like him." Even if I can't see the expressions he is doing right now, I'm sure he is doing some kind of conceited poses.

"You are like him when he got mad." I joked, achieving a laugh on him.

"Tell me, what makes people realize you are different?"

What makes them realize I'm not like them...

"I don't know," my voice with a displeased tone.

"Well, just hang around. Stay in front of a painting, and they'll never notice you are different from them." He squeezed my shoulder and whispered in my ear, "your favorite is ten steps to the right." And he left me standing alone in the middle of the room. With the fear of crashing over someone or go the wrong way or make a sculpture fall. But I know this hallways as the palm of my hand so nothing can go wrong. I hope.

Stay in front of them...

Alright, what can go wrong of just stand in front of them and pretend to admire them.

People walked past me. Not even turning to have a peek on me. Dad was right after all. They won't notice.

Tom Holland

"Good morning, Vincent." A soft voice spoke in the painting next to mine. A girl with straight brown hair, in a beige coat was standing in front of it. There is no one else around so I suppose the greeting was for the man owner of the painting. The Wheatfield with Crows by Vincent Van Gogh.

"Are you friends?" I asked as I walked next to her. She froze. Apparently, she wasn't expecting for someone to hear her. "Can you introduce me? I've always wanted to meet him." The girl lips curled a little bit.

"Vincent..." She stopped as she remembered she doesn't know my name.

"Tom, it's pleasure Vincent." I changed the direction of my eyes from the, mostly, yellow and blue painting to Vincent's friend. "It's a pleasure..." I waited for her eyes to meet mine, but her pupils remained on the painting in front.

"Y/n." Her name came out of her mouth as soon as she realized I was waiting for it.

"Of course, you couldn't have a common one." She smiled without looking away. "What does he tell you?" My eyes changed direction once more. Their destiny, the same as hers.

"That you seem a good guy. Even if he knows that you have no interest in him." Her soft voice remains like that always. Even if Van Gogh isn't really speaking, by listening to her voice you would say she could have a real conversation with him.

"And how does he know that?"

"Because you went to see the sunflowers first, that is what everyone who doesn't knows him well do. And five seconds later, a lonely girl in front of the Wheatfield's with crows called more your attention." It's like if she had a sixth sense. Just that that wasn't what called my attention over her.

"The thing is the girl was prettier than the sunflowers." I partly joke. Hopping to finally win her gaze, but nothing. Her eyes remained on the painting.