Nova Luna

Eight - Apollo

I was excited. I didn't want to cause any distractions to the other painters again. But the temptation of wanting to call her was so strong. I wanted to shout her name so bad. Just like old times.

But I did not.

Instead, I focused on the canvas before me. And now that my mind was a little bit clearer, I knew I could paint better. Thanks to Neoma, I had a little confidence boost.

I started squirting the colors red and black in my palette, then I continued waving my paintbrush. I heard the old man's voice like he was a conductor playing with an orchestra in a theater. 

His paintbrush was the baton. The dry sound of the brush gliding through the canvas that's being caught in his microphone was the symphony. I was more than an audience. I felt like I belonged in his orchestra. And instead of a baton, my paintbrush and canvas felt like a string instrument. 

I was blinking slowly, and everytime I did, the room changed. 

I closed my eyes. I didn't hear a single voice, only the brush strokes.

It was weird, because I saw everyone in the room differently in my mind. Instead of paint brushes and palettes, everyone had their music instruments with them. Different kinds—percussion, woodwinds, and string instruments.

And as for me, it was like I was playing a cello. It felt like I'd been playing an instrument that I'd never even held before. It all felt surreal.

I opened my eyes, with eyebrows slightly raised. Cielo? Is that where it came from?

I closed them again. I've focused a little bit more on the old man in the front stage. This time, I saw Mr. Thomas in a dark room with me.

And using his baton, he guided my hand so that I was able to play the imaginary instrument I had with me. Then, I took a deep breath and I played the music I was hearing.

Dear symphony in my ear,
cast away all my fears.
From my moment most near—
up to my immemorial years.

Dear voices in my head,
Hear the symphony, not the dread.
So, I pray as I lay in a bed,
feel the tear, leave my head.

I mourned;
From the day I was born.
I never wanted your horns.
So feel me bleed all your greed,
I do not need what you give.

"Really eerily weary," I whispered.

It was a painting of a cello, producing orange soundwaves that transitioned into the color yellow, then blue. The old man playing it was barely noticeable, as the room that he was in was filled with the vibrating air molecules caused by the sound waves. He was faceless, but you could tell how focused he was by the way he held the string instrument and felt the music around him. 

It was already 5:25pm. When I started painting, it was just 2:12pm. I knew, because I painted the same clock on my canvas. I had never felt a couple hours pass as quickly as before. I got so immersed in the painting that I lost track of time.

I looked back to check on Neoma. She still looked so serious, and she was starting to fix her things. I guessed she hadn't noticed me yet. I had this plan to surprise her later.

The lessons would end at 5:30pm, and I really couldn't wait for these final minutes to pass. I hadn't seen her in a month, and now she was in the same room with me

I was finishing up, adding final touches to my work, same as the few who were still sitting in front of their painting. Some were gathering themselves and starting to chat to each other: they were laughing, comparing paintings, and trying to take their artworks with them.

When my painting was done, I stood up. I was about to look for Neoma, but I was approached by Damian.

"Elios," Damian said, "I understand if you want to take this painting home, but I would be honored if I could display your work next to Limbo. You'll be growing your collection here."

"I have nowhere to place it back at home sir," I told him, even though I was just saying things out of nowhere, because I just wanted to get to Neoma. "The gallery can keep it." I smiled.

Damian was overly excited about it. He was a very talkative man, telling me all these exciting things about having my paintings displayed. He said something about an opportunity in an art parade. 

But I was really not paying attention to him, I was looking for Neoma in the crowd. 

I was trying to end our conversation as soon as possible, but before I did, Mr. Thomas joined our conversation. I was a little relieved because I felt bad for Damian; I was aware that speaking with me could feel like talking to a wall.

"Damian, when will you start organizing that parade?" Mr. Thomas asked.

"Soon, very soon. We still don't have enough sponsors," Damian replied to the old man.

"Elios, who are you looking for?" He turned to me.

"I'm sorry, Damian, Mr. Thomas. I really have to go," I told both of them. "I saw someone I know from the class that I haven't seen in a long time."

"Before you go, are you good with us displaying your painting?" Damian asked me.

"Her name's 'Really Eerily Weary,' and she's all yours," I smiled, and said my goodbyes. They wouldn't sell it anyway, and I was too lazy to redecorate my room. I had to replace my degree hanging on my wall with "A Peace of Dusk". This latest painting I made would probably just collect dust in my storage room.

I went outside the room and around the gallery, looking for Neoma from the groups of people that were also wandering around. 

I'd missed her. Her smiles. Her laugh. Her voice. Her hugs.

It wasn't that long before I saw her looking at some surrealism paintings.

Slowly, I approached her. And yes, I could still smell her province-air hair scent, even from a distance.

"Hey!" I yelled, stomped my feet, and I shook her shoulders, surprising her from behind. She screamed, held her chest, and jumped a little bit. She was shocked. She crossed her eyebrows in confusion when she turned around and looked at me. 

Everyone in the hall who heard us scream looked at the two of us like they wanted us out of the gallery. As usual, we're that distracting together.

"Excuse me?" She smiled awkwardly. "Do I know you?"

"We haven't seen each other in a month, and you already forgot who I am?" I chortled.

"I'm sorry, but I'm pretty sure I haven't met you yet." She looked confused. "Though, you look very familiar."

"Oh sure," I laughed, thinking that this was just one of her jokes. But she just smiled at me, looking very serious, and said nothing.

"I—it's me, Elios," I told her.

"That's a nice name. You're one letter off from being named the Greek god of the sun, Helios." She smiled.

"Come on Neoma, stop joking around." I was disturbed.

"My name's not Neoma."

"What?"