The black-brown leaf ceased its struggle to hang on; surrendered instead to the pull of gravity, to the flow of the wind. It floated aimlessly, helplessly, above the taxicabs and sidewalks, caught in a dance of impromptu rhythm and improvised steps until at least, it landed.
The pencil paused mid-stroke, its movement interrupted by the unexpected intruder in its path. Camila Cabello brushed the leaf away with her left hand before sitting back to examine her progress. She took in the perfectly straight lines forming an exact black-and-white replica of the park around her: the bench she currently occupied, the naked trees, the piles of leaves decaying nearby, the people strolling along. She glanced up from the sketchpad to compare the nearly seamless recreation with its live, three-dimensional counterpart, and she sighed.
How could she possibly fill a blank page with everything she saw? How could she capture the laughter, the sounds, the sadness and desperation with a mere stroke of the pencil? Could she? Was it possible?
The questions hovered above the ever-present ghosts of self-doubt. The need to start over pushed forward; the need to create and recreate until there was nothing left to question. The sheet ripped easily from its spiral binding, became nothing but a crumpled ball of disillusionment, and disappeared into an eternity of discarded attempts.
"I'm sorry I'm late." He said, in a tone that betrayed his lack of sincerity. His lips brushed against hers in a hasty greeting, and he sat beside her, one hand deep in the pockets of his long black coat, the other holding a lit cigarette.
Dark brown eyes lingered on the empty-white nothingness of the page. "Is it five already?" She asked, though she was well aware that it was almost six. "Guess I lost track of time." She looked up then, into her boyfriend's gray-blue eyes and searched for something to cling to. "Class run late?"
"The professor wanted to talk about my last paper." He said as the smoke broke free from his lips and escaped into the air around them. From his pocket he withdrew the folded pages of his mid-term. "Check it out."
The large "A" lay emblazoned at the top of the cover page, written in bright, permanent red ink. She smiled, trying to feel proud, but feeling a detached sense of resentment instead. "Is this the one you barely worked on?"
"Genius comes easily to some people," and he laughed, flicking the cigarette butt into the air. His longish-blonde hair fell into his eyes, and out of reflex, Camila reached over to smooth it back. He smiled at her, kissed the palm of her hand as it grazed past his cheek. "I'm sorry I've been so busy lately."
Camila looked at him for a long moment, taking in the beautiful eyes that had once held the power to disarm her. Where had that gone, she wondered. What was left in its place? "It's really okay, Nathan." She said, knowing that one of these days she would have to tell him the truth.
He leaned over to kiss her and she smiled against his lips, tasting the bitter-sweetness of familiarity. She wished she could take a snapshot of that moment and frame it against the darker shadows of her thoughts. She wanted to whisper, "I love you" out of habit, if nothing else. But she stifled the impulse and pulled away.
"So, what were you working on?" He asked, sitting back. His gaze landed on the notebook on her lap.
Camila glanced down and shrugged, feeling angry with herself for having nothing to show him. How she wished she could make something wonderful appear in the empty surface of the page, just so he could see that he was not the only one with a validated future. Instead, she felt naked, her failure exposed in the implied absence of motivation. "I... I had something, but I threw it away."
His laugh sounded mocking. "What's the point of that?"
Camila glanced away, her gaze shifting from the blank page towards the Washington Arch. He was right. What was the point? "Maybe there isn't one." She said after a moment, looking at him. "Maybe I'm just trying too hard."
