Art | Harry Styles

2

Harry wakes up after ten, having slept far longer than he should have.

"Fuck," he curses, tiredly sitting up in the double bed his apartment possesses, desperate to snuggle against the white duvet that had been delivered the night before. He'd ordered them back in England to be delivered to this apartment in time for his arrival, and he was glad he had done so. 

He reaches for his phone, coming to the realisation that his phone still wouldn't work. There's no wifi in the apartment, as of then, and he'd yet to change his data plan, something he was planning on fixing that day. 

He shifts his position slightly, peering around the apartment in broad daylight now, already content with living alone, here. He knows he's lucky to live in such a place so early on; with the money left for university by his late father, mixed with the funds he'd saved after three years of working at the local bakery every weekend - to be able to move to New York and go to one of the most prestigious schools there was, and to have a beautiful apartment right from the get-go; he was grateful to his parents, and partially to his younger self, to say the least. 

The apartment was large - its floor wooden and dark in colour, its walls washed white, though one wall on the far side is red brick. There's a leather couch in the middle, a white fluffy rug in front of it and beneath a framed glass coffee table. The kitchen is open, attached to the living room, and there's a spiral staircase, leading to a balcony where the 'bedroom' is elevated above the rest of the apartment. It, too, is open, the double bed in the middle - a loft, rather. 

Harry stands up, heading down the steps and into the living room. Luckily, the apartment came mainly furnished - the only emptiness was the walls, which Harry was thankful for - he was planning to frame photos, hang art, or whatever else. 

The fridge is empty, of course, much to Harry's dismay, and so he makes note to pick up some groceries. Con of living alone - no more of his mother Anne's specialties cooked up for him everyday.

He showers, changing into a grey sweater and a pair of black skinny jeans, slipping on his signature brown boots and letting his chin length hair hang in its curls. He slips his contact lenses in, his sunglasses on and hangs his camera from the strap around his neck, putting on each of his rings. 

The night before, he'd spotted a coffee shop only minutes from his apartment complex - and so he heads towards it. It's not quiet, but it's not busy either - it's a Thursday morning, and he's certain most people are at work by now.

Harry sits down, ordering himself a black coffee and a pastry that he thought looked nice. He opens his phone, pleased when he sees the shop has a wifi network, connecting to it and placing his laptop on the counter. He opens it and plugs his earphones into it, before turning his attention back to his phone, notifications beginning to flood in from the past day or two.

Mum: Text me when you land xx

Mum: Make sure you're drinking enough water!

Gem: You better still remember me, dickhead.

Along with about half a dozen more from each of them, he feels a soft pang in his chest - he already misses them both.

It had been just the three of them for a long, long time. As a matter of fact, Harry had done whatever he could to push all memories before his father's death from his mind. He held nothing against his father, of course, but Harry wasn't one for recollection - he hated to cry, and it seemed that even years later it was painful for him to think about it too much.

He replies to each text, deciding that he'd really ought to set up a data plan so that these interactions would be far more frequent - no reply came through, and he realised that it was already afternoon back home - his mum didn't finish work until five fifteen on the dot.

Harry finishes his pastry and drinks his coffee, packing it up into his brown leather messenger bag and keeping his phone clutched in his ring clad fingers. He searches quickly for a nearby phone store, locating one seemingly down the street.

He stands up, nodding and mouthing a polite 'thank you' into the direction of the kind barista who had made his drink only ten minutes ago. He heads towards the door, following the path his phone had declared as the correct one.

It isn't long before he sees the shop, and it doesn't take long once he's inside to set up a phone network. It's costly, but he doesn't mind - simply nodding as the employee instructs him on which plan would be best.

Harry wasn't going home until Christmas, and he was glad to have some way of contacting his family until then.

He thanks the employees in his typical polite fashion, exiting the shop and wandering out onto the sidewalk. He doesn't know where to go, but he takes a left, noticing a signpost nailed into the ground, pointing ahead of him and neatly engraved, 'TIMES SQUARE'.

He's tempted to make his way there, but he remains desperate to see it at night - the manner in which it's rumoured to be one of the most glorious places there is. At night, where the screens and the captivity of it all is what lights up New York City, with billboards and hopefuls and flashing lights, and music, and happiness. That's the New York he was desperate to see, because thus far - all he'd witnessed was misery. Though he tried to dismiss it, as somebody who never liked much negativity - it was impossible to ignore. The annoyance, the irritation and the pure disgust on the face of those who were storming down the street, shoulders colliding with no remorse or apologies to be heard. It was so different from the friendly town he was used to - though extremely small-cultured, a place of unity.

He decides to head back to his apartment, supposing it would be better just to get settled in for a little while. He would find somewhere to pick up some canvases later on, some art supplies, photography paper, and such. But for now, he would maybe try a little more to get in contact with his mum; perhaps she'd be home soon. He'd think of something to do to pass the time, perhaps go though some of his old photos and edit them if need be. 

As he heads over to enter the apartment complex, he stops, eyes landing on an A3 sheet of paper that wasn't there earlier on.

His eyes squint a little to read, mumbling the words as he says them, "Art Exhibition.. Friday Night 8-10." 

Harry brings his phone from his pocket, unlocks it, and snaps a picture of the poster, a small smile playing on his lips. Art. This was far more his forté.