Gaze (Dark Romance)

The Ripple

"I want to think," I whisper to myself and grab a canvas while sitting on the balcony. A calm breeze blows through the trees around the house; the sound of the river is far yet the water can be heard meandering through the forest below. The rhythmic sound reminds me of what is inside me; it gives me comfort. I apply a few drops of stiff colours that pop on my palette, and I can tell the feeling of the brush in my hand is one I appreciate.

From this balcony, one can look far away into the space: the river is pictured as a silver line, through the screen of green leaves. It is a calm which makes an unbelievable opposite to the storm that raged violently inside me. The trees are following the winds, and leaves are talking to each other as if it's the most natural thing in the world, the waters below are glistening and sparkling like scattered jewels.

Painting was my grandfather's gift to me. He was the one who taught me everything I know. My parents, on the other hand, were mere strangers, I barely have any memories of my parents up until I was four years old and they ceased to exist. They left me with my grandfather, at his small cottage perched on a cliff, and never returned until the day we buried him.

That cottage was more than just a home. It was a sanctuary. The view from that cliff? Unparalleled. Vast expanses of sky, reach the edge of the world, where the sun disappears into the sea at the setting of the day, painting the surrounding space with ratings of colour. My grandfather would spend hours there simply staring at the sunsets while painting, his fingers dancing on the brush delicately recreating the plays of light and the shades.

His paintings filled every inch of that cozy home. There were very few walls left without his paintings and those that had them had but only one subject on the walls – the sunset. Sometimes the sky would blush a soft pink, other times it would bleed into deep purples, and the sun would vary too: It flickered one day it would turn bright red as if it was on fire the next day it would turn into a sinister pitch black ball. But it was always the sunset.

One day, my curiosity got the better of me, and I asked him why he painted nothing but sunsets. His reply, so simple yet deep, has stayed with me ever since.

"When you fall in love with somebody," he said with a wistful smile, "the beauty of nature reminds you of them every single time. The sky, the sea, the soil... we're born from it, and in the end, we return to it. It's all connected. The sunset is just one of those moments when the world reveals its truth — fleeting, but unforgettable." "It's the sunset which reminds me of your grandmother."

Ah, to be loved by someone.

His words drifted into that dark forest, much like the spark of light that remains behind the hill at dusk; His words remained in my heart just as his paintings remained on those walls; each tinge, the tinge of a love, that never ages.

I shrink in myself, I take a deep breath, and now the smell of the forest and flowers fills my lungs, and I close my eyes. Techniques come back to me and I can feel my grandfather's voice when he taught me how to paint with brushes. Every painting which I paint is my effort to reflect not only the reality around me, the society I live in, but the feelings within me. Today I feel like reflecting on this moment – the silence of the woods; the rhythm of the water in the river – on the work on the canvas.

That's when I stop, 

The brush I was holding slipping from my fingers and clattering to the ground. A chill runs down my spine, and the familiar feeling creeps back in—someone is watching me. I straighten up, heart racing, and lean slightly over the railing, peering into the misty gloom that envelops the yard.

It's him.

The guy from last time. My stalker?

He stands at the edge of the tree line, partially obscured by the thick foliage. The light sun filters through the leaves, casting dappled shadows across his features, but I can make out the intensity in his gaze—focused, almost predatory.