Blurring the Lines

Harlow hadn't seen Zayn for two weeks. And while she normally would've been thankful to avoid the leather-clad Sin, somehow she couldn't shake the uneasy feeling she got whenever she started thinking about him.

No. She couldn't think about him like that. She couldn't fawn over his dark, long eyelashes, or his brooding hazel eyes that just looked straight into her soul. She couldn't picture herself wrapped around his tanned arms, tattoos littering his chest and arms. She couldn't run her fingers through his black styled hair. And she most definitely could not picture herself pressing her lips to his, their bodies touching each other in all of the wrong ways.

He was her polar opposite. There would be no way that relationship would even begin to work.

"Harlow," her mother snapped at the blonde, bringing the girl out of her thoughts once more. "You're thinking about him again."

She flushed automatically, pink dusting her otherwise porcelain cheeks. "I'm sorry, mama," she apologized, ducking her head.

Foolish. How could you think of him when you're surrounded by nothing but good? She knew the answer to that too quickly. Zayn was everything bad that she was good, and she'd be lying to herself if she didn't find him even remotely attractive.

His personality, however, was a different story.

Harlow dropped her hand from her chin, letting her tongue wet her chapping lips. Reaching into her purse, she fished out the tube of chapstick and applied it while her mother recited the usual "Sins are bad, don't socialize with them" speech, but she didn't need to listen to know how correct her mother was. Sins were bad -- that's why they were classified what they were. Still, Harlow couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, somehow, Zayn wasn't all bad.

The blonde and her mother got up when one of their names was called, politely smiling at the other Virtues that scattered around the lobby. The pair were at a gala that only Virtues were allowed to attend, art pieces and poetry reciting and every creative thing imaginable decorated the large three-story building. It was one of the days Harlow cherished the most, because her mother always allowed her to buy one piece of art whenever they attended it every year.

"Would you like to see the pieces now?" her mother asked her, smiling sweetly as they walked down halls of poetry writing. Normally her mother wouldn't have asked this question -- it was very out of place for any of them to show symptoms of Greed -- but Harlow assumed that she just meant that she would like to view the art before everyone snagged the good pieces.

The blonde nodded her head, answering with a cheerful 'yes please' as they redirected towards the art floor of the building. It was the third floor, and the hardest to get into. Stepping into the posh elevator, the mother and daughter pressed the third button, waiting to go up a level. When they walked out, the two had to go through security (which Harlow never understood, because if all Virtues were there why would they need a security system?) and a scanner to check for any illegals in their purses and pockets. Once they were finished, the women left with smiles on their faces.

Browsing each art piece critically, Harlow pursed her lips as began walking down the aisles, deciding whether or not she liked the ones being offered for a good price. When she passed a piece featuring a blonde, her long frame sitting on a windowsill with a book on her lap, she stopped. The girl tilted her head to the side, catching sight of a subtle grin on the woman's face. Her baby blue eyes seemed to twinkle in mischief. The painting of the woman was large enough to where she could see a silhouette in the glare of the window. It was a man, dark hair topping his head. She could see the faintest of grins on his face, the whites of his teeth illuminating from the dark shadows in the window.

"Weird," Harlow murmured, bringing a hand up to touch her almost similar blonde hair. Her eyes continued to stare at the woman, chills shaking her from head to toe. "She looks just like me..."

She stood in front of the painting, wondering who could've possibly known she had a windowsill in her room. Who could've possibly known that she enjoyed immersing herself in her favorite classic novels? Who could've possibly known how her eyes twinkled when she smiled?

She frowned. None of the gentlemen in her school painted. Painting was either selfless of selfish -- which was why they didn't offer any extracurricular activities. Why would someone want to paint her, anyways? She was hardly interesting. She was the embodiment of pureness. Nothing bad had ever touched her. For someone else, surely that must've been boring.

"That's beautiful," Harlow's mother commented as she came walking up behind her, smiling as she stared up at the piece. "She kind of looks like you, don't you think?"

Harlow nodded her head silently, only tearing her eyes from the work of art when a couple came walking up to them. The man had an eager smile, his hazel eyes lighting up when he saw her. The woman took a much cooler approach, sliding up to the mother and daughter and smiling politely back at them.

"I see you've taken an interest! Were you looking to buy, or do you just like to appreciate fine art?" she asked, her smile sweet. It was obvious that she was the leader in the relationship. Harlow wondered if she was the one who had painted it.

"I..."

"We were. Did you paint this yourself? It's truly remarkable." -- her mother gave her a look that read buy it, and Harlow had to give in -- "What were you thinking of pricing?"

The woman's smile turned even sweeter. "Thank you for the kind words, but no, I didn't paint it myself. My son did. He's a beautiful painter, but was unable to attend. The price is set at six hundred fifty dollars."

Harlow's mother nodded her head. She fished inside her purse for the checkbook, and fishing it out, she grabbed a pen along the way. "Your son has great work. It's a shame that he couldn't attend -- I would have loved to meet him. What's his name, again?"

Harlow watched as the pair talked, her blue eyes following intently.

"Zayn," the woman answered automatically, her eyes hardening just the slightest. "His name is Zayn."

Harlow's breathing stopped. What? She quickly covered the panicked expression on her face, forcing on a smile. Zayn painted that. No wonder the resemblance in the painting to her was uncanny. Now she understood the shadow in the window -- it was him, the darkness to her light, looming over her like a frightening monster that could snatch her up and squeeze her in his grasp. Harlow watched as her mother wrote down the dollar amount, wanting to stop her from buying the piece but knowing she couldn't.

The check that traveled from her mother to the other woman made Harlow sweat. No. She couldn't turn back now. The check was in the other woman's hands. She'd be hanging something up in her room that Zayn had touched. The thought unnerved her.

"Thank you very much," the woman told them sincerely. "The painting shall be delivered to you in a couple days. May I have your address so it can be shipped to the correct house?"

Her mother nodded her head, writing down the address on a slip of paper before handing it over towards the woman. "What was your last name? I don't think I caught it."

The woman smiled, her laugh twinkling up into the air. "Tricia Malik."

Harlow smiled softly, even though she knew that she shouldn't have. For someone with such a bad classification, his name was just as elegant as his mother's. But if he was a Sin, how were his parents Virtues? Your upbringing was always crucial in the Classification Process...

Malik. Harlow had a first and last name for the boy who plagued her thoughts. Zayn Malik.