invasato [h.s]

42

Just relax—I tell myself.

I bring my eyes back to the computer screen. I know that I just have to peel off the bandaid and read the rest...I can cope with the outcome after.

'After a couple of weeks of heavy consideration, we are sorry to inform you that your submission was not chosen to be displayed. This was not an easy decision, and we hope to see where your art takes you otherwise.

Kind regards,

Mr. Bianchi of the Milano Inst. of Arts.'

And just like that, the tightrope of destiny I've been walking snaps, and I'm falling. There is nothing to grasp onto, nothing to climb up, nothing to catch me. It's done, and I'm crushed.

I blink as I stare at my laptop, trying to reread to convince myself that it wasn't real—that I didn't actually witness those words.

But it is real, and it was soul demolishing in every way.

This was everything I've ever wanted, gone.

"Elaina..." I hear Isaac's voice among the whistling of dread in my ears. "What does it say?"

I must have had a physical reaction in my face, because he asked me with such concern that wouldn't be necessary if my face hadn't fallen into sorrow.

It took everything in me not to break, but in this case, I couldn't help it. Tears brim my eyes, my vision blurring, and my chin quivers as I look up from my screen.

"I didn't get it." my voice cracks.

His face falls, his arms falling from their crossed position and his shoulders slouching slightly. He sighs and ruffles a hand through his hair. "Fuck, babe...I'm sorry..."

I blink fast, trying to fight tears that were inevitable anyway. "I wanted this so bad." I sniff.

I place my face in my palms, unable to look at him or my laptop. My palms get wet with the small amount of tears. I was holding back, not allowing myself to fully break down yet, even though I so badly wanted to.

"This is not the end of the world, baby." Isaac says, coming around the bed. I feel him get onto the mattress and wrap his arms around me and pull my body into his.

"This was a once in a lifetime chance, Isaac." I speak into my hands.

He rubs my back. "It'll be okay—"

No, he doesn't fucking get it.

"Please—" I push his arm off of me, and I get up. My shaky legs take me off of the bed. "I'm sorry, I just...I need a minute." I sniffle, then I leave him in my room.

For me, this was everything. For me, this was what I was gripping onto, white knuckling it in my grasp to keep me above water because if I didn't then I'd drown in the sea of grief that is Denver and the reason why I fled. For me, I had this one thing to keep me going. Through all of the shit I've faced four months ago and in the past couple of weeks, I had that little glimmer of hope that it would all pay off.

And now it's just fucking over, down the drain right before my eyes. There was never any hope to begin with.

So no, it's not gonna be okay.

I hurry down the stairs, wiping my eyes. I need to be alone for just a moment. I feel suffocated. I need to breathe.

Although I feel as though my future just crumbled in front of me, I need to keep myself together.

I head into the kitchen, going over by the sink and gripping the counter. I shut my eyes, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth in an unsteady rhythm. The true grief hasn't ensued yet, right now it's just shock and disbelief that my art journey will never hit its peak.