Loving Hatred

Chapter Fifteen

When Gabriel finally returned, he didn't come alone. He was always with Sandra, laughing and talking as if they shared some private joke, as if the past few weeks had been nothing but a blur to him. My heart twisted every time I saw them together, every time he walked past me without a second glance. He was acting like I was nothing—like we'd been nothing.

He didn't even offer a nod of acknowledgment when our paths crossed. If I hadn't known him better, I might've believed he'd forgotten about me entirely. I tried to tell myself it didn't hurt, but every encounter was a slow, relentless tearing of wounds that hadn't yet healed.

One afternoon, I finally gathered the courage to speak to him, to confront him about everything that had happened, to demand some explanation for the callousness he was showing. I found him standing in the quad, his arm casually draped around Sandra's shoulders, his laugh echoing across the lawn. My heart was pounding as I walked up to him, each step a battle between anger and heartbreak.

"Gabriel," I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Can we talk?"

He looked at me, his face utterly indifferent. "I'm busy, Clara," he said coolly, as if I were a stranger interrupting his day.

I felt my stomach sink, and for a moment, I thought I might be sick. "Just...five minutes," I pleaded, hating the desperation in my voice.

Sandra gave me a pitying look, then turned to Gabriel, as if giving him permission to ignore me. "Come on, Gabriel," she said, tugging on his arm. "We don't have time for this."

Without another word, they walked away, leaving me standing there alone, humiliated and hollow.

---

That night, I locked myself in my room, the silence pressing in on me, swallowing me whole. I couldn't keep running from the hurt, couldn't keep pretending it didn't matter. So I turned to the only outlet I had left: my art.

I set up my canvas, gathered my paints, and let it all spill out. Every stroke of color, every shade, every line was filled with everything I'd been holding back—all the pain, the love, the anger, and the betrayal. My brush became an extension of my heart, moving over the canvas with feverish intensity. The colors twisted and melded into each other, dark and vibrant, capturing the chaos inside me.

I painted memories of Gabriel—the warmth of his gaze, the sharp edge of his laugh, the way he'd made me feel like I was the only person who mattered. And then, as if the truth were pouring out through my brush, I painted the darker side of him too. The shadows crept across the canvas, his face half-shrouded in darkness, his eyes distant, as if he were already gone.

Hours passed, my hands trembling as I layered color upon color, until my canvas was a mess of fractured pieces, a chaotic storm of love and heartbreak. I didn't stop until the sun rose, its soft light seeping through the window, casting an eerie glow over my work.

I stepped back, exhausted but relieved, staring at the painting before me. It was raw and ugly in some places, beautiful and haunting in others, just like the way he'd left me.

For the first time, I felt something shift within me. A release, a quiet acceptance that he wasn't coming back to me, not as I'd known him. The Gabriel I'd loved was gone, and this version—this cruel, distant stranger—was all that remained.

I realized, standing there, covered in paint and bathed in the pale morning light, that maybe I didn't need him to heal. Maybe I had the strength to piece myself back together. So I promised myself that day, amidst the broken colors of my love for him, that I'd let him go, one stroke of paint at a time.