Summer Haze [BL]

Chapter 3 - The Son of Lawrence

"𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴."

I had reserved a small part of my soul, hoping that it would be filled with his presence again, but now that hope had degraded into something so hollow, I could no longer recognise what used to be there before he entered my life.

"He is my boyfriend, Eugene."

Eugene was an adorable person. The way he would gasp and pout or how he always looked like he was on the verge of crying; his little gestures were intriguing.

Since the beginning of college, Eugene and Henry had been friends — though I've never spoken to Eugene that much before — so I didn't know what to feel seeing them end up together.

Had they always had feelings for each other? Since when did Henry's feelings start wavering? Was it only when I disappeared, or did this happen earlier? Was I merely just an obstacle to their relationship before that accident happened?

To erase someone from my memories was difficult, but to pretend it didn't bother me was harder. It had been one week since that talk, and there was no contact ever since.

Henry might be content with how things were, but I had been using the times we spent together, the kindness and the warmth, hundreds of times as my source of comfort. Yet, that only brought upon this distress of how easily I had lost him.

Besides the concerns with Henry, I also had to worry about that person or people who wanted me dead. I wasn't aware of anyone that would despise me to the extent that they would try to kill me twice.

My intuition was telling me they were the same people. Someone who wanted me gone when I was ten years old and even now. The only possibility I could think about why they would like me dead was that I had knowledge that possessed a threat to them.

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The high school I taught at had a few changes, but it was mainly new facilities within the school playgrounds and cafeteria. I met with the principal and co-workers a few days after my discharge and return. I didn't expect them to take me back, seeing how they had already hired another part-time literature teacher.

To live with this job until retirement. From that exuberant child with dreams to an adult with a full-time job. Somewhere along those years, I had left something behind without noticing—tiny pieces of myself that I scattered and slowly forgot why I had grown into this sort of adult that my younger self would've dreaded becoming.

Waking up at 6, preparing material for students, dealing with the mockery of rebellious teenagers, going home around 4, resting, then the cycle repeated. I enjoyed my job, but maybe because of what happened, I didn't think working would become so tiring.

The days passed like sand slipping through my palms, the more I wondered whether I had already reached the end of my role.

'My current life was what I desired: I had a stable job and average income, so happiness should be guaranteed.'

With those hopeless words repeating in my head, it still couldn't convince me nor eliminate these flushes of anxiousness. It used to be more enjoyable with Henry around because I could speak and see him after a long, treacherous day.

At this age, everything became mundane, and it came to the point that I would feel proud of myself for reaching the end of a day. To become so absorbed in blankness and isolation, the dread to meet anyone, my co-workers, principal, mother, sister, wasn't something I could get used to.

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I enjoyed English literature. My dream since primary school has been to publish a book. The days when I would write constantly and tell every single detail of my short novels to Henry now seemed so out of reach. It was funny that every thought and scene all led back to him.

The teachers sat at their tables, speaking to each other with beady eyes stabbing me. They didn't dare raise their voices and, in spite of the closed environment, managed to converse almost in whispers.

This murmur of voices coming from every direction acted as an accompaniment to the conversations within my head.

"The director is really going to send his son here?"

"Yes, but I'm glad Mr. Hayes came back just on time. I heard the principal threw that mad brat under Mr. Hayes's supervision since he can't say no. All of us refused to look after the director's son because who in their right minds would agree to babysit him after that incident in Lawrence Museum? It's strange how the director, someone with such high prestige and standing, managed to have a son who turned out like that."

"Mr. Hayes's complexion doesn't appear too well. What if the director's son makes his health implications even worse? I've tried speaking to the mad artist once, but he completely ignored my greeting. I feel quite bad for Mr. Hayes. Having to deal with such a person right after being discharged!"

Everyone made it sound like the director's son was a hassle to deal with. The principal did inform me I would supervise someone. The famous art director's son. Still, the way he instructed me produced the impression that the art director's son wasn't here for work experience or training but rather to babysit, as the other teachers said.

They made it clear that this person was troublesome to deal with, so sending him to me was the best solution to eliminate the burden from others.

The principal provided little to no information regarding the director's son. Still, all I knew was that Director Lawrence was a famous figure in the fine arts industry.

Henry used to seldomly mention this man's name when speaking about his college exhibitions since Director Lawrence would present the awards as a special guest. Henry—no...

My mind had now returned to the thought of Henry again. Every hour, I found myself waiting for his call, but nothing had come. How was he doing right now? Painting another portrait using the same Winsor and Newton oil paints?

Usually, at this hour, he would eat a light snack, always fruit, or he would be in a foul mood. He clearly expressed how content he was with his life now with Eugene, so my return was merely a nuisance, and I knew this very well.

I should've said something more last time to gain clarity, but this always happened. I only knew what to say after everything was over, and by the time I deciphered my thoughts, everyone had already taken a step forward while I was still picking up the remnants of my mistakes.

Along with the empty winter wind, those 10 years drifted away with the dried leaves and washed down the creeks. I wasn't sure if I should contact him first.

The expression he had that day at the cafe was vague. When I thought of the good memories, especially those preserved from my childhood and the peak of my youth, it confused me.