tea stained newpapers. mileven au.

twenty two.

the brunette had been at her studio for a few hours now, promising to herself that she absolutely had to get this piece done or she would have to kiss her museum debut goodbye. but unfortunately that was terribly hard to do when her heart was concerned about one thing and one thing only.

you know at this point, she didn't know if she wanted to punch through the woven fabric or completely rip it in half. which, truth be told, wasn't an abnormal reaction for her when she was frustrated with her work. though this frustration was lit ablaze by dark curls and plush strawberry candy colored lips.

which is probably why she actually ended up doing exactly the opposite than snapping her empty piece across her knee.

instead, the artist sank down to the wooden panels beneath her, her small frame crumbling onto the floor on her studio. she wanted to disappear, rot even in the middle of this very studio.

anything really rather than to deal with the shame of being such a fucking disappointment.

surprisingly, this had become quite a comfortable crying spot for the brunette. it might be hard to believe but besides lucas, this floor had probably been here for her more than she would like to admit.

it was very sad. she knew that already.

her eyes flickered, the water at the brim of her eyelashes creating their own kaleidoscope. it would be hard not to appreciate seeing the world in such a beautiful state, those rainbow pools blurring her vision as they swirled her reality into a bubble of fresh blown glass.

of course, until they finally spilled over.

the room seemed to become smaller as those pretty mirrored orbs flooded with rivers, her chest rising and falling in a shaky pattern. that sick pain was building up from the center of her stomach, stinging her heart and suffocating her lungs.

how on earth did she get to this point?

even more importantly, why did she even let it get to this point?

by now the brunette should have cornered the writer, hunted him down and forced him to listen to her screeching pleas. then before they knew it, he would forgive her, pulling her tiny body close to his as he caressed her cheek and pressed sweet kisses to her temples.

but el hopper's life wasn't like the movies. she was too prideful, too stubborn and he was far too delicate for her to approach him in a manner that wasn't intentionally thought out.

that was probably the worst part about mike... his logic. you know, sometimes he was unbelievably lucky he was so fucking cute.

the artist wiped her eyes, pulling her hands down her cheeks in exasperation. to be able to feel things was a curse in itself, those poisonous inflictions completely distracting her from the whole reason she was supposed to be here. at this very moment, she should be proudly walking down the halls of the museum of modern art, her heels clicking against the marble floors with a single strand of cream ribbon tied around her honey locks as she gracefully walked up to her beautiful showcased piece.

but yet here she was, crying on a musty floor over a stupid boy on a perfectly valuable friday night.

she cringed at the use of vocabulary... what absolute terrible memories that word brought back up.