"I love you. With all my heart. To the end of the ocean and back."
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FEATURED BY @StoriesUndiscovered
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Missy is a promising student of art, drawing wherever she goes. She is just as talented as quiet and she seems too indifferent to care...
The very first week of college, there was a party. I wanted to go. Owen laughed at my suggestion. Until he realised, I wasn't joking. He checked for brain damage but I don't think he found anything new.
Why, he asked, puzzled.
How can I make art if I don't visit the world behind it once in a while, I told him,
Owen contemplated my suggestion.
You are so weird, he sighed and got up.
... as if it wasn't the reason we became friends.
Do you want to wear that, Owen asked, pointing to my sweatshirt.
Yes, I told him.
Cool.
With that, we left.
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Parties were loud. I knew they were. But I hadn't realised they are sweaty and smelly as well. I couldn't have known. I've never been to a party, I reminded myself. Owen never left my side. I sketched by his side as he talked to his friends. When they asked what the hell am I doing, Owen said:
Not you for sure.
And everyone laughed and moved on. They were so drunk. But I still admired Owen for such social skills I could only dream of.
There was this girl in a tight, black, little dress. I suddenly remembered Mrs Johnson's comments in the church as the older gossiped about a girl who had run away from our little town.
The making of the devil, she called them.
I paid her no mind until then. I didn't think the devil made this girl any less pretty than when she'd be in a sweater and wrapped religiously in sheets and covers. I watched her, hugging her friends, drinking, dancing and making others dance with more enthusiasm only with her own energy.
I sketched her.
I sketched her from her vomit-covered shoes to her revealing cleavage. I sketched her laughter, her smile and the music pouring into her ears. I sketched her wild hair and the life it overflowed with. I sketched her tiredness and relaxation at the same time.
Because nothing was simple. And I couldn't only draw her dress unless I drew her smile as well.
Owen looked over my shoulder. Which I hated when people did. But he only said:
Highlight the silhouette.
I looked up at him.
Why, I asked.
It will make her movements more vibrant, Owen told me.
He was right.
How do you know this, I asked.
Architecture, he said.
That is hardly the same, I countered.
And yet, I was right, he told me.
I punched him in the shoulder for that idiotic remark and the equally idiotic smirk. The more I spent time with Owen, the more I appreciated not being alone. And I also worried more about what Evie and I are.
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