❝ 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬❞ Months have passed since San left behind everything he ever desired, determined to confront the demons that had him spiraling without reprieve. Cursed and bound by fate, it became increasingly difficult for him no...
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《 ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ- 𝐒𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕 》
As the early morning light filtered into the painting room, I stood there, a paintbrush in hand, facing the canvas that had remained untouched since my youth. Sent to juvenile detention and caught up in the tumult of life that followed, I hadn't found the time—or perhaps the courage—to finish her portrait. Now, returning to it felt like reopening a wound that had never fully healed.
The painting captured her laughter, those beautiful dark eyes sparkling with uncontained joy. It was a stark contrast to the grief that had shadowed me since her loss. Her features were vivid on the canvas; the tiny freckles across her nose, her big eyes framed by long lashes, all radiating happiness—a happiness that was forever paused in time.
As I stood there, the impact of the image overwhelmed me. The painting, meant to be a tribute, now felt like a vivid reminder of what I had lost. My heart clenched painfully, the familiar ache intensifying as I gazed at her carefree expression. The urge to turn away, to flee from the painful memories the portrait evoked, surged within me, yet I was rooted to the spot, transfixed by her image.
With each second that ticked by, the emotional turmoil grew until it was too much to bear. My grip on the paintbrush tightened reflexively, the wood snapping under the pressure of my clenched fist. The sound of it breaking echoed in the quiet room, a sharp snap that seemed to break the spell her image held over me.
I took a step back, trying to regain my composure, my breaths shallow and ragged. The broken brush in my hand, the splintered wood a tangible manifestation of my inner turmoil. Her portrait, a bittersweet capture of a moment long passed, now seemed to demand a strength from me I wasn't sure I possessed.
As I stood in the dim morning light, struggling with the broken brush and my emotions, footsteps approached softly behind me. I didn't need to turn around to know it was Chan. His presence had become a comforting constant since his return, and right now, his timing couldn't have been more poignant.
"You okay?" Chan's voice was low and gentle, breaking the silence of the room without startling me. I could hear the concern woven through his words, a reflection of our renewed connection.
I shook my head slowly, unable to speak for a moment, my gaze still fixed on the unfinished portrait. "I thought I was ready to finish it, to finally deal with this," I finally managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. "But looking at her like this... It's like she's still here, still expecting me to be..."
"To be what?" Chan asked, stepping closer, his voice a soft prompt.
"To be the brother who could protect her," I answered, the words laden with guilt and sorrow. My eyes remained locked on the canvas, on her image that seemed to look back at me with a happiness that was forever beyond my reach now.
Chan moved to stand beside me, his presence reassuring. He looked at the portrait, then at the broken brush in my hand. "You know," he started, his voice thoughtful, "maybe it's not just about finishing the painting. It's about letting yourself remember her not just with pain, but with the joy she brought into your life."
