black » harry styles au

prologue

belle ;

he was quiet about it. everyday he would come inside the coffeehouse, his order exactly the same way. by now we all knew his order by heart. on occasion, someone would ask to make sure and he'd respond with a simple nod. never any words.

he liked his coffee black. no milk or sugar or even cream. it was one of the easiest cups to make and i think that's why he always chose it. as if he didn't want to bother us to work any harder or waste our ingredients on him.

after he ordered his coffee, he would thank us with a genuine smile. not one of those that we usually see. this time the smile reached his eyes and he seemed actually grateful. he intrigued me.

the boy, he could be no more than twenty, was a creature of habit. after he thanked us wordlessly he would shuffle over to the corner of the shop and look out at all the people passing by. often he brought along a sketchpad and i could watch him lazily doodling a few passerbys.

everyday though, at precisily 2:30 pm, he would stand up, tuck his notebook under his right arm and walk back outside to the rest of the world. as he passed by, he usually gave me another smile and threw away his drawing.

i never thought much of it. at first he creeped me out a bit when i would catch him sneaking a peak over at me, but my curiosity started to get the better of me. everyday after he leaves now, i check to make sure no one is watching before i take out his drawing from the trash. it's always right on top, so i never have to dig thankfully.

it's not that his drawings were actually good; because they weren't. it was actually kinda funny at how bad they were. he knew it though, i could tell by the way he would release a chuckle sometimes as he drew.

it was what he drew that made me intrigued. everyday he would capture a person, even if he only saw them for a few seconds. he tried to get as much detail as possible in the person; from the small designs in a boy's hat to maybe how intricate a woman's blouse was.

then he would move on to the scenery. if it was a rainy day outside, he would comically draw an umbrella floating away in the wind. or if it was a man in the coffeehouse, he would draw him burning his tongue on the scolding coffee.

i looked forward to it everyday now. the mysterious, curly haired boy had became my guilty pleasure. but it wasn't until the day that i saw his drawing of me until i realized it.

. . .