The silence of the museum was so all-encompassing that even the idea of breathing seemed like it would cause some sort of major disruption in the universe, or at least in the pocket universe contained by the museum’s walls. In her own silence, Helen could hear every little thing that was happening around her. The echoes of footsteps moving down hallways, the hushed tones of tour guides and students discussing the art. The slightest jingle of keys whenever a security guard moved and the distant bustling of crowds of people in the lobby or even further out, in the streets below. And, staring straight ahead, she could hear someone outside her line of sight sit down along the bench from her, could hear the scribble of a pencil against paper.
She pretended not to notice. What did it matter to her what other people were doing in this wing? Her eyes remained fixed on the painting in front of her.
But curiosity, as always, got the better of her, so after a few minutes she looked to the side, still saying nothing. She slowly looked the boy up and down, taking in the details of his appearance. He was young, a good few years younger than the age she normally claimed to be, and he had a general scruffiness about him, from his hair to his clothes. He had the same frantic air as all the students she had encountered before, his scribbling yet to cease and already a page of writing. His features seemed vaguely familiar to Helen, not because she wasn’t absolutely certain that they’d never met before, but more because every face tended to look familiar to her.
After all, she had seen so many of them that in her memories they had all blurred together, each one indistinguishable from the next.
“Sorry, can I help you?”
Helen blinked. She’d barely registered that she was still staring, too lost in her thoughts to consider where she had been looking.
“Oh, no. No,” she quickly replied. “I was just…thinking.”
“Cool, no worries,” he said, pausing for a moment in consideration. “So, come here often?”
Almost on instinct, Helen leaned back slightly, bristling. “We’re in an art gallery, not a bar.”
The boy chuckled. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” He shook his head, grinning. “But I was in here the other day and I saw you then, too. Sitting in the exact same spot.”
“You’re thinking of someone else.”
She knew what was coming next, because it was what always came next. “You’re not an easy person to forget.” She blinked, unimpressed. “Because of your pink hair, I mean.”
He didn’t mean that. It was, in fact, painfully obvious that he didn’t mean that. Because Helen had been hearing the same line, maybe different words but always the same meaning, for longer than life itself. It was the same insinuation – you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen – that had been made by practically every person she’d ever spoken to, and she was sick to death of it. Perhaps, in another lifetime, she would have blushed and giggled, would have twirled her hair and sweetened her voice, but she wasn’t in a life like that. In this life all she could do was sit and just about tolerate it, keeping her expression completely neutral, because she was old and tired and couldn’t help but wonder if she ever even was that other girl, because it sure as hell didn’t feel like it.
“You gonna talk, or just leave me hanging here?”
God, she really hated boys sometimes.
Deciding to change the subject completely, she asked “You’re studying art history?”
He smirked in a way that said ‘I-know-everything-because-I-am-better-than-you’. “Good guess, but no. Classics.”
“Oh. Lovely.” It was becoming clearer and clearer that there was no hope for this boy, but she could hardly just leave. That would be rude.
“It’s actually a lot more interesting than you may think. I’m currently doing a paper on the concept of immortality and its representation through time, although, ha, that’s mostly just for fun.”
Helen stood up abruptly. “I’m sorry, I’ve just realised I have to be somewhere. Like now. It was nice meeting you…?”
“Henry.”
“Henry, okay.”
And with that, she turned and strode out the room, heading for the gallery exit. All the while, she was arguing with herself about how long would be an appropriate amount of time to steer clear of that particular gallery, and in fact all galleries or museums in the city.
She couldn’t risk seeing that boy again.
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