"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...
There was a sixth tea in my hands, a warm light of the lamp was the only company, I had and the night softly breathed through the opened windows. The black paint was slowly drying as more indigo was added and the careful strokes filled the canvas.
Only a sketch. Rough concept, of someone who used paint twice in their life. I have never loved paint as I did pens and ink. Painters are liars. Covering lines which do not appease them, strokes which are not sharp enough for them with more paint. More lies.
When you draw with pens and coal as I did... there is no way to hide your mistakes. Your regrets. The unapologetic ugliness of your piece will always be there, staying with you in this horrible world.
I pulled the brush away from the painting. I did not like the way it felt. But that was alright. It would not stay that way. Taking a white, I let the small ball covered in ink roll over the canvas.
I knew I would never stop loving drawing over painting.
Details. Not of colours. But shapes. Not of what we should feel but non-restricting borders of what we could feel.
I took the canvas and hang it above my bed. Not a sketch. A vision. I took the drawing of Mrs Hernandez, looking at the piece I sometimes forget about. And yet it always reminded me of the things we do for love.
Sometimes I did not want to be reminded of those crimes. And so she fell into the mountains of drawings. But I knew she was there in my room, waiting for me to confess my sins.
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When Owen returned, he knew something had happened... Because I told him the minute he came through the door.
Owen, I said.
He was uncharacteristically quiet. His suitcase was still propped against the door and we were sitting by the dinner table, cool teas beneath our hands.
Have you spoken since, he asked.
No.
Have you seen her since, he asked.
No.
Have you felt as if you are the one kissing her or her kissing you, he asked.
...I don't know.
My first kiss with Robbie Willard was as if you kissed someone in a haze of dreams, surprising yourself as it is happening. But with Evie... I believe all of my kisses belong to Evie. I do. The ones before, the ones after, the ones that never happened and the ones that could've.
I didn't know who was kissing who. Who was lying to who...?
Do you know why the first time that I saw you, I didn't like you, I asked.
Because I was handsome, Owen answered with a smug smile.
Moron.
Because you behaved like I was your friend, I said.
Owen was confused. Furrowing eyebrows, expectant look, waiting for an explanation.
You reminded me of everything Evie and I are not. The playfulness, the teasing, the insulting and annoyance...
Owen knew Evie was more than a friend to me. I knew that he knew.
She's a part of me that I have always cherished. She's the reason, I do not believe in the uniqueness of people. Because she is a duplicate of myself. The better copy of me. All of the best parts. Evie made me understand why God made Eve out of Adam. She is my past, my present and my future. When she isn't, neither am I... Isn't that a scary way to think of someone like that?
I asked Owen this question, scared. Terrified even. Of this feeling stronger than me and everything I represent.
Yes, he told me, you can't just love a part of yourself, she is, you must love all or you love nothing, Owen said.
Sometimes I wish I did not love at all, I confessed.
Owen sighed.
I know.
He knew.
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