This story is part of the Wattpad Creators Program!
••
One sudden horrific moment shifts the entire trajectory of Atlas and Errol's lives, handicapping both young men in ways they could never have expected. A sculptor without his sight, and a piani...
Two more uploads coming this week! I meant to get these done over the weekend but long story short, my tattoo artist really had me fucked up with his shit time management. Love that for us. As always, thank you so so much for reading, lovelies! Y'all are the best, seriously xoxo
Errol
ओह! यह छवि हमारे सामग्री दिशानिर्देशों का पालन नहीं करती है। प्रकाशन जारी रखने के लिए, कृपया इसे हटा दें या कोई भिन्न छवि अपलोड करें।
I tried not to think about Atlas too much, especially as the longer days of practice and meetings stretched on.
Tried not to think about just how at peace I felt when I was with him. No judgment, hell, really no expectations. When I was with everyone else, it felt like they were constantly expecting something of me these days. Hendrix with this showcase, my father with this weird new father son dynamic we've found ourselves in.
When I was with Atlas, it just felt like all he expected me to do was exist. Like instead of funneling all this intention and work into what I could do, Atlas both aloud, and with actions, always seemed to ask me how I was. How I am.
He didn't view my skill as what I could offer, but rather an extension of myself and with an understanding of the impact it had on me. He identified my skill as just a marker for my being, and though almost inexplicable, it made me feel purpose I didn't know I was longing- hell, craving for once my mother died.
The ability to just be. For someone else to have no expectations, so I could just exist without the fear and possibility of letting them down if I didn't live up to that image.
At first I thought I had ruined things with how we met. How he witnessed the worst of me first... but he was the first person in a long time to tell me it was okay to be where I was at. By not forcing better upon me, he made me constantly want to be the best version of myself.
Every day Atlas showed me not just why, but how my mother found such a home in him. I was damn near terrified by how much influence he'd had on my perspective in such a short amount of time, yet there was such beauty there was well. The tenderness to understand the things I thought I did, and vocalizing the things I couldn't.
It made me ache all the more for those years I missed seeing Atlas with my mother. Something told me those years held more wondrous experiences than all of my education combined.
I wanted to be a fly on the wall during their conversations. Their debates. I thought of everything they could've possibly been plotting on before they lost each other, and everything they would've possibly accomplished had things not turned out the way they did.
Atlas told me not to focus too heavily on some of these what ifs, but how could I not? I thought to myself.
"You left a puzzle." I whispered to the wind, placing my hand against the cold stone before doing the unexpected- crouching down to sit cross legged in the now overgrown grass, with a crisp freshly ironed pantsuit on.
