My Teacher and I

Chapter Thirteen

I froze for a moment, my hand on the door handle. Part of me wanted to ignore him and just leave, but I knew I couldn't. I took a deep breath, steadying myself, before turning around slowly.

Mathew stood behind his desk, his eyes fixed on me. The rest of the class had already filed out, leaving just the two of us in the room. His face was hard to read—calm on the surface, but I could sense the tension underneath.

"Close the door," he said quietly.

I hesitated for a second, then pushed the door shut. The click of the lock seemed to echo in the silence of the empty classroom. I stood there, unsure of what to say, my heart pounding in my chest.

Mathew walked around his desk and stood in front of me, his arms crossed. He was close now, too close, and I couldn't stop myself from feeling the familiar pull toward him.

"I noticed you weren't yourself today," he said, his voice softer than I expected. "Are you okay?"

The question threw me off. After everything that had happened, after the way things ended between us, he was asking if I was okay? I wanted to laugh, but all that came out was a sigh.

"Does it even matter?" I asked, my voice sounding flat. "You made it pretty clear how you felt. I'm just trying to move on."

Mathew's expression shifted, a flicker of something like regret passing over his face. He uncrossed his arms, taking a step closer. "Atticus, it wasn't—"

"Don't," I interrupted, shaking my head. "Don't say it wasn't what I think. I know what happened. I'm not some kid you can just brush off."

He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. I could see the conflict in him, the way he was trying to figure out what to say, but it didn't matter anymore. I wasn't going to stand there and listen to him apologize or make excuses.

"I shouldn't have crossed the line," Mathew finally said, his voice quiet. "But it wasn't because I didn't care about you. I was trying to protect you, Atticus. Protect both of us."

I scoffed. "Protect me? By pushing me away after—"

"I didn't know how to handle it," he cut in, his voice more firm now. "You don't understand how complicated this is for me."

I stepped back, running a hand through my hair, frustrated. "Complicated? That's all you ever say. But you keep pulling me in, and then pushing me away. I can't keep doing this, Mathew."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

For a moment, neither of us said anything. The weight of his words hung in the air between us, thick and heavy.

"Why didn't you just tell me how you felt?" I asked quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

Mathew looked down, avoiding my gaze. "Because I wasn't sure what I was feeling. And by the time I figured it out... I was already too deep in this mess."

I swallowed hard, feeling the sting of his words. Part of me wanted to believe him, to accept his apology and let it go, but the hurt was still too fresh.

"I just need time," I muttered, finally breaking the silence. "To figure this out. To figure us out."

Mathew nodded, looking back up at me, his eyes softer now. "I understand. Take all the time you need, Atticus."

I gave him a small nod and turned toward the door, not wanting to drag this conversation out any longer. Just as I reached for the handle, I heard his voice behind me, quieter now.

"For what it's worth, I do care about you."

I paused, my hand resting on the doorknob for a second, before I pushed the door open and walked out.

As I walked down the hall, my mind was racing. Mathew's words echoed in my head, the weight of everything hanging heavily on my shoulders. I needed to get away from the classroom, from the awkwardness, and just be alone for a while. The art room was my sanctuary, a place where I could express myself without words.

When I finally reached the art room, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The familiar smell of paint and canvas welcomed me, calming my frayed nerves. Ms. Davies was at the back, helping a student with their project, but she looked up and smiled as I entered.

"Hey, Atticus! You, okay?" she asked, noticing the storm cloud hanging over me.

"Yeah, just... needing to paint," I replied, forcing a smile.

"Go for it. I'll be right here if you need anything," she said, returning to her work.

I made my way to my usual spot, grabbing a blank canvas and setting it up on the easel. I stood there for a moment, staring at the stark white surface, my emotions swirling inside me like a chaotic storm. I grabbed my brush and dipped it into a deep blue paint, the color reflecting the sadness I felt.

With each stroke, I poured my heart out onto the canvas. I painted dark, swirling shapes, representing my confusion and pain, mixed with lighter shades to represent the flickers of hope that still lingered. I didn't hold back; I let the brush dance across the canvas, capturing my feelings of heartache, frustration, and longing.

As I painted, I thought about Mathew—about our first kiss, the way he made me feel safe, and the sweetness of our moments together. I also remembered the hurtful words he had said afterward, the way he had distanced himself, and the confusion that followed. I painted a figure in the corner of the canvas, a silhouette representing Mathew, surrounded by a halo of light but also shadowed by darkness. It felt like a reflection of the man I cared for so deeply and the turmoil he brought into my life.

Hours passed as I lost myself in the act of creation. The world around me faded away, and all that existed was me and the canvas. When I finally stepped back to examine my work, I was surprised at the emotions that spilled out onto the canvas. The deep blues contrasted with bursts of bright yellows and greens, symbols of hope peeking through the dark clouds of my feelings.

Just then, I heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching. I turned to see Ms. Davies standing behind me, her eyes scanning the canvas with a thoughtful expression.

"Wow, Atticus, this is incredible," she said, genuinely impressed. "You've really captured a lot here. What's it about?"

I hesitated, unsure of how much to share. "It's... complicated," I finally admitted. "Just feelings about some stuff happening in my life."

She nodded, understanding. "Art can be a powerful way to express what we sometimes can't put into words. I can see that you're going through something significant."

"Yeah," I replied, feeling the lump in my throat. "It's just a lot to process."

"Remember, it's okay to feel what you're feeling," she encouraged, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Don't hesitate to talk to me if you ever need someone to listen."

"Thanks, Ms. Davies. I appreciate it," I said, managing a small smile.

As she walked away, I took one last look at the canvas. It was a representation of everything I was feeling—heartbreak, confusion, and a glimmer of hope. I knew I wasn't done yet. I needed to keep painting, keep expressing myself until I found clarity in the chaos.

With renewed determination, I picked up my brush again, ready to dive deeper into my emotions, allowing the art to guide me toward healing.