𝑶𝒂𝒌 𝑻𝒓𝒆𝒆 ✔️

I. Butterfly

But without art how were they supposed to communicate?

And Harry would come home by three and he would kiss her cheek and murmur, "how was your day?"

She would reply with, "it was boring."

And he would smile and make dinner for the both of them.

Although they didn't wear their rings and he had hickeys and she was tattooed with blue; Wednesdays were their days.

Even if the art of their love was gone, that was long forgotten on Wednesdays as they ate, laughed and told each other how much I need you and don't let me go's and don't leave me's .

But there aren't any I love you's because without the art they don't know if their love existed anymore.

But that and the fact that there's hickeys and no rings and one person in a bed that was meant for two was long forgotten because Wednesdays were their days.

That was the day they always looked forward to.

"Y'don't wear your ring anymore," she mumbled in his neck on the bed that was meant for two but he was never home.

"Sorry," he only croaked as he held her hand. "You don't wear yours either."

But she only stopped wearing it about two weeks when he stopped hiding the hickeys that were so prominent and he was barely in the bed that was made for two.

"You stopped loving me," she whispered and he wanted to say that he didn't and that he loved every part of her even if she didn't wear gloves on cold days which left her hands frigid and didn't wear a camera around her neck anymore or didn't have Polaroids on every inch of their apartment.

But where was the love without the art when that's how they fell in love in the first place?

And Harry usually sketched but that was replaced with a computer and a keyboard with murmurs of gotta get this job done. So that was all he could think about along with the one night stands and in the back of his mind Cam Cam Cam.

Cam traced the last tattoo left on his body, the tattoo that reminded him of her and if he removed it, it was like letting her go.

"You're going to keep this one?" she asked, tracing the outer line of the insect on his stomach.

"You still give me the flutters, my butterfly," and he kissed her nose and she closed her eyes and everything felt okay because they were laying on the bed that was meant for two and the hickeys were fading away and she was still his butterfly.

And maybe the art was gone and the pictures were thrown into the fire and the sketches turned into rough drafts which turned into wasted paper, thrown into the garbage with no prominent dimples and big toothy smiles.

But Wednesdays were their favourite day and it was the only time they felt lucky to be around each other really.

And a couple years ago when Harry would have his pencil in his hand or behind his ear with a colourful imagination, he'd sketch the girl that made his heart beat fast and his head spin.

He had made sketches- more than ten or perhaps over forty of her and they only seemed to get better but none of the sketches he made showed how much he loved her.

"What's that... what's that feeling you get when you're around a person a lot and your heart beats really fast and your palms start sweating?" He asked the girl that constantly took pictures outside- especially in autumn as there was a lot of deep reds and oranges although it was cold and she never wore gloves; leaving her hands frigid.