graffiti - z.m.

{ 9 }

[nora’s pov]

Zayn Malik. What an unusual yet beautiful name. There was something about it that made it balance perfectly on the tip of your tongue. Like some long lost words you had always been seeking for.

I waited for a few breaths to see if he would ask for mine - but he didn’t. So I stayed silent too, as we walked through the darkened streets where every wall was covered with graffiti and there was practically music coming from small apartments or clubs all of the time. Street lamps flickered and bathed the night in a warm light, that made the shadows even more prominent and horrifying.

“I’m Nora. Nora Grey - not that you care obviously, but that’s my name,” my feet were hurting terribly. And the business-voice of my father had kept judging me silently in my mind for not introducing myself. It hadn’t been polite not to. Not that this ‘Zayn Malik’ guy was polite himself - quite the opposite, but that shouldn’t force me to have no manners anyway. Even towards a guy like this.

“Okay Nora Grey then - so what’s your deal? You probably go to some fucking fancy school, right?” I looked sideways up at him - surprised. He was walking with his hands in his pockets and trying to sound casual; trying to smalltalk, but I could still tell he was genuinely curious.

“Honestly - I really cannot see why I should tell you.”

Why should I? He had done a perfectly nice job letting me know he didn't like me anyway already. Why pretend anything? I was nothing like him.

Zayn Malik stopped for a second and looked down at me; his eyes examining mine with something I couldn’t quite understand - and I couldn’t quite understand the feeling his stare gave me either. Basically I couldn’t really understand Zayn Malik in total - he had something unconsciously attractive about him, but still he was so terribly rude and unsympathetic.

It was like he was searching for something in my eyes, meanwhile I was drowning in the mix of caramel and hazel, that held all those things I couldn’t understand about this boy. For a second I wished he had been different - been from my world. Been some art student in my school from a good family who knew how to treat people politely and maybe even room the ability to care.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right - there's no reason for you to tell me.” And with that his gaze fell, while he continued walking. As if he agreed we were just too different. His white shirt with the paint stains hung perfectly on his upper body and he seemed to fit so nicely in here in this area, that I already couldn't stand. With the pitch black hair, the rough beauty he seemed to posses. He didn’t need any model hair cut or high fashioned brand for clothing - he was completely resting in himself with what he was and had. He fitted so perfectly in here; in this part of the city. He represented everything I had been taught my entire life to stay away from.

And it wasn't just his outside that was so opposite to me; he wasn’t scared, he wasn’t well mannered, he didn’t care about restrictions or the law, he probably stayed out late every night living life to the maximum, he probably painted whenever and wherever he wanted to, did whatever he felt like. No high expectations. Probably didn't give a damn about anything.

And maybe that was the exact reason I decided to tell him anyway - because he was so different; because he was nothing like what I usually met. He had this wildness about him that was somewhat intriguing - a rebellious side I couldn't stop finding so endlessly attractive.

“I go to FIA,” I stated as casual as I could. Keeping my eyes on the view in front of me; the lively street which was filled with young people out in the hot summer night. Cars were driving by slowly as everyone seemed to group around this little corner store with awful white fluorescent lights. Probably buying cheap liquor for their trip of the night.