Painting Flowers // Ashton Irwin [au]

Eighteen

Ashton's POV

I hate time. The mere concept of it physically sickens me. Days when you wish time could flow by faster tortures you by moving agonizingly slow. Days when you want to cherish every priceless second screws you over and ends in a blink of an eye. Days when you wish to stay up all night talking to the person who you hate sleeping without are ruined once daybreak shines its glowing rays of unwanted luminosity in your eyes. Days when you wish you could push a best friend's betrayal to the side and simply talk to him about the bubbling anxiety building within your core as their day of flight approaches seems almost tangible until you realize you wasted your time brooding over his mistake and ran out of time.

Like air, time doesn't show itself as it flows around us, aging our lives with each second, minute, and hour. You can't physically see it run past you, but it doesn't fail to remind you of what you could have done and what you have to do. Time is my enemy because I can't control it. I can manage it, but I can't control its sovereignty over me.

These past three weeks didn't pass in a blur. No, they passed like a metronome, each second a steady, consistent, beating rhythm. It sounds nice, but I needed it to waver. I needed the inconsistency. Even when I was stressed with midterms earlier this week, it didn't lessen the clusterfuck of emotions spilling from every orifice in my body. My countdown is just about to end, and I'm not even remotely close to being prepared for the inevitable.

"You all have your passports, right? Even the girls?" Mum asks, relaying a packing checklist as I pace around Emilia's bedroom with my cell phone pressed firmly against my ear.

"Emilia and Julia are checking to see if they came in the mail," I say, which doesn't ease my mother's nerves as she rambles on about how the mail is always unpredictable and that there's only one day left until our flight. "They've been tracking the package ever since it was shipped. It's out for delivery right now, so don't worry."

"But what if they made a mistake and forgot it at the post office?"

I throw my head back and sigh. "The last thing I need right now is another what-if, mum. I'm already at my wits end with everything going on."

"I know, sweetie," she coos. "Have you tried opening up to Emilia lately to get thing off your chest?"

"She's always my go-to person. I talk to her about everything."

"Well, have you tried talking to one of the boys? What about Luke? He was always there for you down here. Have you tried talking to him?"

Tried talking to him, yes. Actually following through with my attempts, no. "He's been busy doing his own thing," I lie. "I'll try talking to him later."

There was no discussion about Luke's secret kiss to Emilia. Emilia knows I know, and I know she knows. We left it at that. She could have told me, but I don't hold the fact she didn't against her. What's done is done. I'm aware of the situation and that's all that matters.

When we're together with everyone, Luke and I act as though nothing has happened between us. We still talk and hang out with each other but never alone. Emilia isn't blind to mine and Luke's façade. She can easily see our tension but hasn't made an effort to get involved. She doesn't make it aware that I've been clinging to her for the past couple weeks. She endures my watchful eye when she and Luke speak to one another. She's keen on everything, even my unspoken yearn to talk to Luke.

I can tell Emilia everything, and I much as I like to think her support is all I need, I'm wrong. She doesn't know what Luke knows. What I've told her is only a dent in the surface of my time with Natalie. Luke has been with me through this pain before. He knows how destructive my thoughts can become. He knows how utterly weak I am even when I think I'm Mr. High-and-Mighty.