Forget about violet

Chapter 1

Hi there! I'm so happy you reached out for this book. I hope you gonna stick for a little longer.  This book will later contain heavy topics, so if you're sensitive, be aware. English isn't my first language, so if you see any mistakes, please let me know:) 

Enjoy!

~WillowHollow

...

 I met Young-su during an art class on campus. My mother always loved art and, despite her efforts, throughout my whole life, she tried to push me in that direction, I never quite grasped it. 

When I entered the room on the top floor of the tower that day, I was welcomed by a sign of a boy with beautiful features, calmly painting on canvas. He sat on a high stool with his legs tucked under him. His eyes, incredibly dark, were focused on the task, unaffected even by the noise caused by my entrance.

However, I had no understanding of art back then. At that time, cold logic guided my actions. I didn't perceive the concept of beauty, let alone my mother's obsession with it. She always said I took after my father. I couldn't understand, how she could say that. It offended me because my father had abandoned her.

So, I interrupted the boy and asked where the class was held, thinking he was also waiting for it. When he replied, he was so calm and melancholic, yet he didn't seem sad. He said that nobody had come to his class, adding that he understood that nowadays art is desired, but few want to invest their future in it. It took me several years to understand his words as deeply as Young-su did back then.

I was just like the people in his stories, and I saw nothing wrong with it. When Young-su looked at me, perhaps thinking it was the last time he had to, his face showed no emotions, just a calculated indifference because he, too, understood that being a dark character in his stories didn't bother me.

I felt joyful, happy knowing I could go home and indulge in other pleasures, happy knowing I could tell my mother the classes never happened. At that moment, I would have left, but the thought of the woman, who compared me to my father, held me back. I wanted to understand what I was missing according to her.

So, I said to him, "But I am." Young-su wasn't convinced, and maybe until the last moment, he believed I would change my mind and leave. But I stayed because my goal became to understand my mother and her immense love for art, perhaps even greater than her love for her own son...

...

We started spending more time together. Young-su tried to teach me painting, but it quickly became apparent that I had trouble with perspective and proportions. He tried to show me sculpture, but I couldn't represent things in three-dimensional space. Every day, after each failed attempt, we lost hope that I would ever love art.

One afternoon, when I came to the studio to study anatomy, the boy stopped me. He then said that I still didn't understand the beauty of art and until I did, I would only waste time on it. He made it clear that the time for me to hold a brush had not come yet, but I should accompany him instead. He told me, looking at me attentively, that I had beautiful facial features and almost looked like Achilles.

That day, I simply sat there watching him paint my curls, using a brighter color than my pale blond hair could ever be described as. I asked him why he did that, why he distorted reality while painting my portrait. Why, when I looked at my eyes in the mirror, I saw brown in them, but he found there a place for green. He replied that everyone sees what they want to see. Paintings don't reflect reality, but our imagination of the world.

I smiled because, for the first time, I understood what he meant. He too raised the corners of his mouth slightly, still holding the brush with green paint that he saw in my eyes.

...

Gradually, I stopped reaching for anatomy books. I usually just sat with Young-su, talking to him and watching him paint peacefully.

My portrait, if a figure on canvas could even be compared to me, was based on one of the walls, finished.

Sitting there in comfortable silence, I started humming a song. The atmosphere was very homely. Golden rays of the setting sun streamed in through the windows.

Suddenly, Young-su asked me to show him my hand so he could draw it. Then he asked me if I played the piano, smiling to himself indulgently, and asked me another question. Did I want to try? I knew what Young-su thought, that I would never even consider it. I felt offended, but I couldn't bring myself to be angry with him. I replied that it depended on who would teach me. I didn't want to spend long hours locked in a room with a professor who would reluctantly or bitterly impart his knowledge to me. Young-su looked at me and was about to say something to me, but then hesitated and closed his mouth. He looked at his current project, then at me, and in his eyes, I could see a spark of determination. He then told me that he used to play the piano a long time ago but if I wanted... and he stopped, undecided.

That was the first time I managed to solve a piece of the puzzle that Young-su was. I understood that he didn't consider himself better than me and didn't think I would want him to teach me either. The Young-su I knew was confident, brave, and decisive. He shared his thoughts with me and expressed his opinions, but now he had doubts. I felt oddly satisfied that even if he seemed to read my thoughts, this time he couldn't say what I felt. Although I didn't feel the need to keep him in suspense, I assured him that I wouldn't want anyone else as my teacher. Young-su, hearing this, smiled gratefully.

...

Even if Young-su still spent time in his studio, he never refused to give me piano lessons, even if it meant letting the paint dry on his palette. I knew I often distracted him from his painting halfway through a stroke, but I couldn't stop when I saw how eager he was to help me.Young-su was a really good teacher, and thanks to him, I quickly grasped the basics, and soon my friend's knowledge was exhausted. I don't know when we crossed the line between strangers and friends. Within six months, we started spending more and more time together, and the long hours in the studio were amused by intimate conversations.

Young-su told me that there was a piano teacher on our campus and that he was sure he would be willing to teach me. But I wasn't convinced; I was afraid that the bond we had built would be shattered by our different schedules. I looked at him disapprovingly and shared my concerns. It is said that you become like those you associate with, and there might be something to it because I inherited from the boy the ability to speak plainly and self-assurance. He reassured me and announced that he could change his plans, especially for me, and instead of staying in the studio, he could come to my classes. I was glad, and only later did I realize how much this change cost him.

Now, as I look back on those moments after all that happened, I can only say that I never deserved Young-su. Nobody did. His selflessness and kindness were too good for this world, and maybe that's why what happened later happened.

...

I hope you liked the first chapter and I will try my best to upload the next chapter next weekend. I am also looking forward to your comments.