"I knew you were artistic." Harry shoots me a proud smirk that sets me on fire while he walks around my senior art class.

"You didn't even see which are mine," I raise an eyebrow as he stops scanning the hung canvases on the walls.

"I'm talking generally. I mean, you take an art class," His cheeks flush and I laugh.

"Hold on a second," I raised my fore finger to make him wait as I walked to the small door at the far end of the class that leads to students' confidential documents concerning that specific subject. Lockers of some sort.

I walked in and fished out my corner of the room, choosing my old tattered sketching journal that I somehow decided to give up on.

"I don't do huge canvases, I just...you know, I take a tiny brush and walk myself through a piece of paper. Doesn't really have to be extravagant to-"

"Give me that," Harry snatches the book out of my hand with a joking tone. "Enough stalling. Let's see what you're all about."

I roll my eyes with a grin plastered across my face as I see him react to the first thing he opens it on. Of course it has to be that.

"Uh, you don't have to-"

"Is that your..."

"Was my crush. That's over. Done. Finito."

Harry continues going through the pages slower every time he turns to the next. Every page has a complicated pattern on it with a face or a structure of my imagination or a plant or something of sorts on it. Words are flying around the page in a messy-but-still-looks-good kind of handwriting. "Aurora, you are..."

"I know, a bit of amateur vibes going on there."

"No, these pieces are incredible. Honestly, you're hella talented!"

My cheeks flush and hurt from grinning too much. "You really think so?"

"Fuck yeah. Did you write these poems, too?"

"Woah, not really poems. Just scattered underrated thoughts I got out on paper."

"Poetry is scattered underrated thoughts. Here, here," Harry says excitedly, turning to a page and reading what I had written on it. "I saw a car wrapped around a tree today, and all I could think of was how much I wanted to be held like that."

I suddenly become too self-conscious to backtrack. "That's not poetry, come on."

"Poetry is feelings, and you write feelings! I love these, Aurora." He sounds so impressed that I feel warm all over.

"Nothing compared to what you can do, though. You-" I was cut off by his interestingly curious features staring at me so intently I could combust.

"What do you think would happen if a poet and a poetess... -is that a word?"

I giggled. I fucking giggled, and said, "Maybe, you would know. But by all means, I'm nowhere near a poetess-"

"What happens when they come together? Or meet in the most ridiculous of places?"

I squinted my eyes and caught on, playing along as I leaned back slowly on the wooden desk. "Like where?"

"A high school prom, perhaps?" Harry closes my sketchbook and takes a subtle step towards me. His tone wasn't giving anything away, as if he was talking to a different person.

"Well, that would require a bit of imagination, wouldn't it?" I bit back a laugh and tried to keep our intense eye contact competition going smoothly.

"Would it?" Harry's lips twitch. "Let me help you with that, I'll make it easier for you. How about...an art class, maybe?"

"Oh, God! What a ridiculous place for a poet and a poetess to be!" I bit back a bark of laughter, though my mouth was wide as was my grin as Harry laughed happily, his head tipping back.

"And she can act," He puts his hand to his heart, impressiveness glistening in his irises.

"Oh, I'm sure I got nothing on you,"

"I don't have many secret talents," Harry muses. "I can use my vocal chords well and play the guitar but that's just about it."

"You forgot the part where you write poems and turn them into songs," I point out.

"Sure, sure, but I can never pull it off without my squad," Harry smiles at the mention of his band members. "They're pretty fucking awesome, to say the least. They know what's up."

"Well. You are very lucky you have them, and them to have you."

He looks at me, and for a moment the room is dark and dim lit, for just this spark of a moment, and all I could see is his green irises, vibrant throughout the whole room. The moon is green, the light is green, everything is green.

"What's your favorite color?" I subtly ask, completely out of the blue.

Harry looks like he wasn't expecting the question. He thinks about it and then says, "Brown."

"Brown?"

He rolls his eyes before he reads my expression, as if expecting the surprised reaction. "Don't tell me, it's a strange color to be a favorite, right?"

I frown. There's a story behind this. "No, I think brown is brown. It's a color. I don't see why it shouldn't be someone's favorite... I just didn't think it would be yours."

Now he's the one surprised. "Why's that?"

I smile and shrug, the psychiatrist part of my subconscious puts on her bulky glasses and steps into the bright lights. "I'd see you for a black kinda guy. Rock band, sad and emotional poems, and let's not forget the all black outfits."

"These are all shallow reasons, to be honest," Harry puckers his lips, not offended at all, weirdly very interested. I raise my eyebrows at him and he grins. "I don't mean anything by that, and if I'm honest, that was me months ago, the black kinda guy, for all these reasons..."

My ears perk in attention. "What happened?"

Harry looks distraught for a second but I don't get to read much into it before he relaxes his posture again and brushes the seriousness off. "I didn't want to be that predictable, the way you just described,"

"Oh," I part my lips and study his playful put-on. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stereotype y-,"

"I know, love, it wasn't just that. Many stuff happened to me that changed me, changed who I am...and..." Harry trails off and makes the mistake of glancing at my apprehensive expression. He does a double-take and retracts, like he was sharing too much.

I finish the sentence for him. "And you're sitting here with a complete stranger oversharing your deepest secrets," I clicked my tongue, grinning to lighten the mood.

Harry looks at me funny. "Thought we covered up that part; we're definitely not strangers at all."

"Well, we technically just met,"

He ignores me and goes on, "I just think we're not at that part of our relationship yet."

I widen my eyes, his own squinting slightly as he laughs. "What part?" I ask, blushing.

"Where we talk about our exes..."