𝑨𝒎𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒕 - ʜᴊᴘ x ᴏᴄ [𝐌𝐀𝐉𝐎𝐑 𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆&𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆]

𝟓𝟐

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

ᴄᴀɴᴠᴀꜱ

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Granger and I were in the painting area at the hotel I was staying at. I'd been itching to get some paint on a canvas, needing the quiet and focus to clear my mind. Granger was free, so I invited her. Why not? It wasn't like we had other plans, and besides, it wasn't as if we'd talk about anything too serious. Painting was one of the most therapeutic activities I had come across, especially now. The brush, the colors, the movement—it helped drown out the noise in my head.

And right now, that noise was louder than ever. The lake. Hooded figures. The bright blue light. I couldn't stop thinking about them. Every time I closed my eyes, those images flooded back. Each one was like a piece of a puzzle I couldn't quite fit together.

I set my canvas on the easel, stared at the blank surface for a moment, then picked up a brush. My hand hovered, unsure of where to start, my thoughts a jumbled mess. I glanced over at Granger, who was already settling in, preparing her own space. She had that focus about her—always so certain, even when it came to something as simple as picking up a brush.

"What are you painting?" I asked, trying to break the silence.

Granger gave a small shrug, her eyes flicking to her own canvas. "I'm not sure yet. Maybe something abstract. You?"

I hesitated, then shook my head. "I don't know. Just... something to get my mind off things."

I dipped my brush into a deep blue, the color rich and heavy on the bristles. As I dragged it across the canvas, the strokes were jagged, quick, almost frantic. The water. The cold. The lake. The sensation of drowning in it all. The figures standing by, watching. I couldn't shake it, and the harder I tried to focus on the canvas, the stronger the images pressed into my thoughts.

Granger, too absorbed in her own work, didn't notice the way my hand was shaking slightly. I felt something like a tightness in my chest as I continued to paint, mixing in swaths of dark green and black. The more I painted, the more the scene took shape. The water. The shapes standing outside it. The blinding blue light, casting shadows in every direction.

It wasn't even the painting that mattered, I realized. It was the act of trying to control something, to hold onto a thread of focus in the midst of everything swirling in my mind. The movement of my hand across the canvas was my only anchor.

Granger paused, then turned toward me. "It looks like you're painting a storm," she said, her voice quiet but observant. "Is that how you're feeling right now?"

I met her gaze, surprised by her accuracy. "Yeah," I muttered, trying to hide the lump forming in my throat. "A storm I can't quite understand."

She didn't respond immediately, just continued working on her own piece. But there was a softness in her expression that made the room feel less tense, less overwhelming. It was strange, this quiet understanding between us. We'd spent years on opposite ends of the spectrum—always competitive, always at odds—but here, in this quiet space, we were both just people trying to make sense of things.

I dipped my brush into the black paint, adding more shadows to the lake scene, and tried to let go of the weight pressing on my chest. Just a little longer, I told myself. Just a little longer, and maybe I could push the thoughts away.