Dysfunctional (h.s)

7.

    brace yourself for some (probably incorrect) french

***

Luna is eighteen and Harry is nineteen. They are a hopeless jumble of children and adults and lovers and friends, the past and present overlapping. No one knows where one ends and the other begins. There's no defining them. It's a stubborn thread that weaves their lives together, tugging each time they drift away. A bond that no one quite understands.

Their relationship was entwined fingers, arcadian nights in the tree house and confused feelings. Was.

They don't spend much time together anymore, not after that day; when those two words he said imprinted themselves in her mind, reciting over and over like a ghost of a whisper. I'm sorry. It's alright though. He has bigger problems to deal with. She just has to pretend that she doesn't miss the curve of her back moulding securely against his chest as his breath fanned over her neck or the way he'd run his fingers through his hair each time it fell in his face. It's alright though, because some people smoke, others drink and others fall in love. Each one dies in a different way. She never thought that their friendship would turn against them but she's learned a lot in these years here.

For now harry is a blur of sleepless nights, worn Chelsea boots and multiple cups of tea. Luna is a chaotic disposition of violent brush strokes, sharp angles and bitter coffee.

It's a seemingly warm afternoon in Holmes Chapel. School is over and Luna is in the art studio, relatively unbothered by the boisterous throng of people occasionally peeking in from the other end of the door. To her art is a wonderful medium for release, a cathartic and rewarding process. She's immune to distraction.

Her fingers are racing, struggling to keep up with her pulsing thoughts. The only sounds that fill the room is the scratching of paintbrush against canvas and the occasional rumble of wind slapping leaves against the glass, but Luna can only focus on the noise in her head.

"Ever thought of painting me?" he had asked.

"No" was what came out her mind but yes, yes, yes. Is what her mind had screamed.

And that's exactly what she did because frankly is there anything she wouldn't do for that boy? She adores him. Not love, she doesn't say love anymore. It's a lie she's well aware of, but that word tends to leave a slightly bitter taste in her mouth these days, seldom accompanying the twinge in her heart. There's a feeling of hurt there, something that wasn't there before. It's alright though.

Right now however was different. Frustration clouds over her. It has been over twenty minutes since she began furiously mixing hues of green together on her palate. None of them do justice the colour of his soigné irises. A soft washed out green, like a favourite sweater that's been washed too many times. Like the sweater that doesn't fit him anymore. Paling into something less like a gemstone but more like tiny baby leaves just sprouting from a twig. A description that seems strange, dull even but one that only she understands. No combination of paint or artistic skill could conduct the image of his eyes from her mind onto the canvas.

It's almost pathetic to be honest, these feelings; like another one of those things that are only beautiful in the beginning. The way they couldn't breathe without each other, the loneliness that hovered when he wasn't near. but now it oppresses her, an addiction that lingers under her skin.

So It was doomed from the beginning, really.

With a huff she drops her paintbrush taking a moment to tangle her fingers in her blonde hair and examine her work. It's a mess, really.

"Luna, est-ce vous?" (Is that you?) a thin, heavily accented voice asks from the corner of the room, pulling her out of her trance.

"Oui Mademoiselle Hélène, I'm over here." she calls back, immediately recognizing her art teacher, a sweet french woman in her fifties.

" Ce que vous faites encore ici ma chérie?" (What are you still doing here my darling?) she remarks in disapproval, worry evident in her soft brown eyes.

"Oh, i'm sorry Madame I was just finishing up some stuff." Luna says now starting to clean up after her unfinished work.

"Is everything alright mon amour? (My love?) You usually don't stay late.

"It's nothing, Madame, I promise, Ça va" (I'm well) lies.

"Do not try fooling me Luna, I know you well. Faut-il avoir quelque chose à faire avec un garçon?" (does it have anything to do with a boy?) she asks knowingly. "Peut-être, que le garçon que vous êtes en train de peindre?" (Perhaps, the boy you are painting?) she continues, motioning towards the painting in the stand before her.

Helen is Luna's favorite teacher, probably her only friend in school. She is one of the few people that she'd open up to without even trying. She didn't ask prying questions or expect her to hold the entire world on her shoulders. She cared for her, quite naturally, as Luna seems to spend majority of her time in the studio.She just had this sixth sense that let her know when Luna needed time to herself to breathe and escape her shit filled life. Well, most of the time.

Unspoken words fill the silent air between them. The older woman pulls up a stool beside luna.

"vous ne disposez pas de me dire, dear" (you don't have to tell me, dear) " but I know a woman in love when I see one, you are belle et jeune" (beautiful and young) she says even though skinny skinny skinny is all Luna sees. "anyone who doesn't appreciate your talent has probably never seen it, oui?  it's a funny thing, love, erm how to describe it- un la poésie des sens. ( a poetry of the senses) do not worry ma chérie ,channel it into your art.

"je vais, je vous remercie madame Hélène." (I will, thank you) she doesn't understand.

"Go home now, I will see you tomorrow" the sweet french art teacher remarks, patting her back before leaving.

The troubled girl indulges in the idea of it all being that easy but it's an overwhelming impossibility. Love is the enemy and Luna hates that she understood that.

she chucks the painting into the bin, remaining sad and guilty guilty guilty.

so you see, it was doomed from the beginning really but maybe they could keep it up a bit longer.

***

okayy, mixed feelings about this chapter but I hope its alright. Also, i don't speak french so do correct me if there are mistakes yeah? oh and we reached 400 reads! thank you all so so much ilysm

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