The devastating and heart wrenching story of Yellow, takes you through the journey and relationship of an addict, and a woman who views the world through rose colored glasses. Throughout the story of Yellow, you will see how the struggles, the disap...
Content. The way I've felt since the moment Harrywalked through the front door of his apartment a week ago, is content. It feels like, for the first time in months, everything is lining up exactly how it should be. My relationships with the people I surround myself with, are thriving. Even though I've been through so much in the past seven months, it feels worth it. All of the anger I felt, the tears I cried, the resentment I so badly wanted to forget, none of it matters anymore. It feels so good to finally be caught back up with myself. My mind and heart are on the same page. Finally.
The café is busy, busier than I think I've ever seen. The line reaches out the door now, something that never used to happen. The menu has been expanded with multiple new items, ranging from food and drinks, to reusable cups and even packages for key rigs. It's kind of refreshing to sit here and see how much it's grown since I first started coming here the beginning of my freshman year of college. It's refreshing to sit here and see how much I've grown. How much Harry has grown, too.
I draw in a slow breath, dropping my gaze back down to my sketchbook placed neatly in front of me, my pencil held gently in my hand. The paper is still left empty and untouched as I stare down at it with my head tilted to the side. I drop my pencil onto the surface of the table, reaching for my latte instead. I take a long sip, reaching for my phone with my free hand, although it clips the mug in my hand, the hot liquid splashing over the sides and onto the paper of my sketchbook. I gasp softly, setting the mug down quickly as the liquid seeps through into the last empty page of my sketchbook and off the edges to the table.
I frown lightly at the mess, holding a napkin in my hand, knowing that it won't do anything for the paper. I sigh and wipe up the mess on the table, squinting at the now brown colored paper. My head tilts to the right again, the napkin falling from my gentle grip as I stare down at the paper. A small smile spreads to my lips as I dig through my tote bag, finding my fine point sharpie. I work gently with the paper, being carful of my hand placement so I don't smear the coffee around anymore. The thin black lines of the sharpie soon begin to decorate the paper, turning the mess into a piece of art.
I wet my lips as I pull away, staring down at the page for a moment. The piece is simple, barely any detail or thought put into it. There's not any meaning behind it either, but I've learned that that doesn't take away any beauty that the piece holds. Maybe it's not as special as some of my others, but I started this sketchbook in this café, and now I've finished it here, sat at Harry's table in back left corner. With simplicity, there is still beauty.
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I close the end of the sharpie after signing my name in the corner, smiling lightly to myself. I gather the pencil and eraser I had set out, returning them into my bag with the rest of my supplies. Something I started doing more recently is carrying some essentials around incase I get inspired while I'm out. I tuck a piece of my hair behind my ear, flinching harshly at the feeling of someone leaning down to my ear. Hands invite themselves to rest on the sides of my thighs, the familiar tattoos and rings cause me to let out a breath of relief.
