Saturdays never really ever feel endless, but today seems different from the moment Harry bangs on his alarm clock, aka phone, just to realize that he has to actually use the phone like a modern human being. He was just so tired because he spent the rest of Friday night with Liam at the library because being in the apartment alone wasn’t something he liked, well, being alone wasn’t something he liked in general, but that’s a completely different story.
He had wandered around the building while Liam kept muttering to himself about not being able to handle Kant, giggling every time the phrase “I can’t handle Kant,” came out of his mouth. Harry hid in the library people watching and sprinting when the infamous “gold digger” managed to make her way into his personal circle. The diameter of said circle is about 10 meters, but Harry really doesn’t like her so he didn’t feel bad for running away like she was a mass murderer. Fortunately, his dramatic escape had lead him to the antique book section of the library he had never seen before; he took pictures.
After unlocking his phone and staring at it blankly trying to remember what the name of the app he needed to go to was in order to shut off the alarm, he regretted it a little. Except not really, because hues of brown, blues, and red seem to mesh perfectly when distributed on the covers of books older than the country he was attending school in. The pictures sitting in his camera on his dresser were more than worth the extra effort he has to put into keeping his eyes open. He bounds out of bed smiling because it’s Saturday and fuck he should be up and excited because it belongs to him and him alone.
Every Saturday Harry hopes out of bed in the morning at 10 a.m. to go around the city taking pictures of whatever he wants. He gets to focus on what he loves and doesn’t have to worry about quickly taking a shot because English is at noon and he’s ten blocks away. Nope, he gets to casually stroll down every street snapping pictures of whatever catches his eye. Harry often wonders if he’s so enamored with this city because it isn’t his, but honestly, it seems to be more true every day, New York feels more like home than London or Holmes Chapel, or England entirely, seemed to be.
He makes his way through his morning routine brushing his teeth and showering with a bit of urgency that probably wouldn’t have been there if he hadn’t had economics yesterday and if he hadn’t run into another existential crisis while getting on the train. He had the worst sleep since he left England. He hadn’t been so restless in bed since his Dad’s expectations used to try to suffocate him as he closed his eyes. It’s like he had stapled the memory onto the back of his eyelids. Harry laughs at himself as he tugs on his pants, he struggles and wonders why he wears his pants so tight in the first place, but too late now.
He’s still chuckling as he pulls over his shirt because it’s like Harry’s life has a thing for choosing demons that he has absolutely no control over (three cheers for not being able to decide who’s the sperm donor for your life!). Liam had made fun of him the night before because Harry zoned off every time someone with a hat walked past. This lad with a beanie has becoming Harry’s new obsession and Harry is really bad with obsessions. He dwells in them, creates a whole new world for them. Harry holds on to the unreal because everything real seems to slip through his fingers and out of his control. However, those are thoughts way too deep for 9 in the morning on photography day.
Photography Day. Just thinking about it gets a new, more energetic, skip in Harry’s step. When he sees Liam at their kitchen table he audibly groans.
“Dude! It’s not even been a month yet; how are you so lost?”
“I can’t man.”
“Stop with the Kant jokes you wanker,” Harry mutters out, but as he turns to the fridge Liam bursts into laughter.
