They say love makes you do crazy things...but what's crazier than falling for the forbidden?
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Mallory Wright is a 22-year-old junior at her dream and one of the best universities in S...
How can I say this without breaking How can I say this without taking over How can I put it down into words When it's almost too much for my soul alone
• Fleurie •<>•
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As I carefully apply the brush to the canvas, blending a base of brown with hints of red and orange, the painting begins to take shape. I've been in my room for quite some time, tucked away in its depth, away from everyone around me so that I can finish this painting without any interruptions, and without Dad finding out about my obsession with art that's still blazing within me.
Though he's been in a good mood of late, being understanding and going out of his way to make me happy, art isn't something he'd be okay with me doing if he ever found out.
Besides art not being a stable source of income which in conclusion is just a waste of time, according to him, it also reminds him of Mum. When she was alive, she would spend hours in her art room, creating stunning paintings. At first, Dad seemed indifferent to her passion, but over time, I noticed a change in him. He became increasingly bothered by the sight of Mum painting, for reasons I still don't understand to this day.
After setting the brush aside, I take a step back to admire my progress. Though the painting remains unfinished, an image is beginning to emerge. It's a depiction of a girl, a girl who keeps appearing in my dreams and thoughts for no reason. Despite my efforts to understand why she lingers in my mind, I've yet to find an explanation.
Who is she? Why does she keep showing up in my head? What does she want from me?
She remains silent, her gaze penetrating mine with the most vibrant Sterling grey eyes I've ever seen, accompanied by a soft, gentle smile that strangely soothes my racing heart.
I remember seeing her at the hospital some time ago, following the accident. I remember her holding my hand and saying my name, yet despite the countless questions swirling in my mind since that day, clarity eludes me still.
James, who sadly hasn't been around lately, mentioned that she was one of the reporters solely fixated on getting information about me and the accident. Dad echoed similar sentiments, albeit with a tinge of exasperation and disparagement.
Understanding his firsthand encounters with the media, I empathized with his perspective. Upon learning of the mysterious ginger-haired lady's intentions—to smear my name with fabricated stories in the media for attention—Dad spared no effort in shielding me from her and other journalists vying for my story during my hospitalization.
