One. || h.s.

Twenty Six.

"Okay, I guess that's fine," I agree. I have nothing to do today anyways so I might as well not waste it. Normally I would be skeptical about spending a day with Harry but I find myself excited. "What did you want to do?"

"I want to take you to this art gallery that just opened up for a show downtown," he says, standing from the bed now and heading to the bedroom door.

"An art gallery?"

"Yeah, I promise it's not as lame as it sounds. I promised a friend I would stop by and I thought you might want to come, I think you'll really like it."

"Okay, I'll bite. I'll be ready soon then," I nod, swinging my legs out of bed.

Harry nods before turning to leave the room so he can shower, but I catch his eyes skimming over my body before he leaves. The familiar butterflies rise in my stomach as I make my away out into the living room to dig through my suitcase. My cheeks are flaming and I can't stop smiling. What is wrong with me?

About a half hour later I'm dressed in black wedges, dark wash jeans and a mint green blouse, my hair pulled in a tight ballerina bun with some loose pieces and my usual makeup done. Harry is ready and we both pull on our coats as we head down to the parking garage.

I recognize his sleek black Chrysler Dodge charger straight away. The car is not one I could forget, it was Harry's baby. I heard an earful about it on the daily and it looks to have had some major upgrades. I also remember the car for all the memories it holds; the long nights in empty parking lots outside the city, driving around aimlessly to kill time, racing on empty streets for the thrill. It holds a piece of my past, but the fancy car makes me miss my little Honda I had in LA.

"So who's your friend running the show?" I ask as we drive down the street further into downtown, music playing softly on the radio.

"You don't know her, she's from England. I haven't seen her in a long time..." He trails off, his green eyes focused straight ahead. I can see thoughts forming behind them, memories playing in their vivid color. His grip is tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, but I keep to myself and avoid asking anymore questions realizing that this all might mean a bit more to Harry than he is letting on.

I've learned that if Harry wants me to know something, he will tell me. If I pry he will only distance himself from me which, strangely, seems to be something I don't want at the moment. All I've wanted for a long while now is to be distant from him, but now I can't seem to imagine having him pull away from me or I from him.

We park along the curb, Harry getting out and rushing around to open my door for me for the second time. It's such a small gesture but says so much about how he has changed. Harry would have never thought to open a door for me three years ago.

The building we walk into is sleek and white, a perfect rectangle. Very thin back bars cover the windows for an artistic effect. The door is a heavy wrought iron door which Harry holds open for me. The space inside is also bright white with a high ceiling. Natural light floods the entirety of the building and walls placed randomly around the area create a sort of labyrinth, not one of them touching the ceiling. I'm sure Harry could see over them if he was a few inches taller.

All along the walls are photos, each one black and white and all of people. Some of the people are laughing, some crying, some unaware that they are being photographed. Each person has a distinct style and they are all different, no two photos the same. I notice that some of the pictures beside each other on the walls are opposites. The same person in both photos but dressed in the opposite way and displaying the opposite emotion. Both look normal, but it is hard to decide which one is the true character of the model.