Now, you may think this was a sad story.
I mean, they both did.
They both left with tear filled eyes.
They both went home that night,
Wishing they spoke sooner.
They would've broken the silence in the library for each other.
But did either of them know that?
After all, she made herself believe it wasn't true.
He moved at the wrong time and she blamed herself.
Had he not gotten up, they would most likely be with each other now.
No tears would've fallen.
But he got up, she looked one last time, and they both left.
He wasn't able to draw anymore.
She hadn't touched her romance novel in over two weeks.
They were both angry at themselves.
Him, for not speaking up.
Her, for thinking she didn't deserve something that great and she just imagined it.
Him, for spending too long admiring her
If he had taken less time, he would have spoken to her.
He hadn't drawn her face,
But would he keep it an unfinished drawing?
No, no he would not.
He painted it.
He painted the perfect New York skyline.
He painted the bright purple couch centered to the window.
And he painted the beautiful, now faceless, brunette on the bright purple couch.
He could've painted her face, he remembered it quite well.
But what he ended up doing was so, so much better.
He mirrored her eye colors perfectly.
He captured every shade of green so, so well.
He blended them,
He painted her face an endless abyss of greens.
Not just any green though.
But nobody would know.
Anyone who sees the painting would think nothing of it.
Maybe they'd only pay attention to the expertly crafted architecture.
Or the endless colored book spines tightly packed on the wooden shelves.
They would pay more attention to the hypnotic void of greens.
They would wonder what the artist was trying to capture.
They would use so much brainpower to try to figure out the reason behind the painting.
When really,
It is so simple.
He will end up putting it in his home.
Right in front of the window.
Directly in the line of sight of anyone passing.
He doesn't know why he put it there.
"It felt right" is what he will tell himself.
Maybe he put it there in hopes someone will pass by and think,
¨Wow, look at that talent¨
He will not expect someone to pass by and stop.
To sprint up the stairs leading to the front door.
And to pound on the, ironically, green front door.
He will open the door.
Slightly concerned at the desperate pounding.
Nonetheless, he will open the door.
She will think it's painful how long it took him to open the door.
But he opens it.
____________________________________________________________________________
AN: Third person is not my forte in any way, but I enjoyed this chapter :)
Feel free to share feedback!!
YOU ARE READING
His Muse
RomanceAs I watch his eyes flicker from me to his page, I wondered why he was here. At that exact desk, In this exact library, In front of me, Was it fate? Did fate lead him to this library, to that desk, right in front of me? Will I find out?
