Senseless

black

Cover made by @DramaticGirlxoxo 💕

If you asked any girl in the present times, she would probably tell you her heart was black. Or her soul; it alternated. The truth was, there were actually very few people who could say that and actually be giving you the truth. When someone says their heart is frozen, they want laughs. They aren't actually detached. They don't really have black souls, which would make them mean and heartless.

In fact, there are mostly nice girls and all of them seem to care too much. Far from black hearts, really. They're more pink, if you asked me. Mine, you ask? Well, I'd probably feign compassion. I would tell you my heart was just peachy, like my shiny gold soul.

I would never pretend to be emotionless. That is not good, being emotionless. In fact, I'd say it's pretty dang healthy to shed a tear here and there. While many people put themselves under the illusion that they are hardened to the point of not feeling, they are truly the people who go home and cry themselves to sleep. They want to believe they are unmoving because they don't want to face the real fact: we are all just humans who cry over absolutely nothing but feel loads better after doing it.

As for me, I push myself to cry. Maybe let a few tears loose and the gut wrenching feeling of despair that shouldn't even be there will leave me alone. Honestly, I'd consider myself a crybaby. I have nothing to cry about. I just whine when I get the chance.

Like school. I whine about school a lot, when I really had things to look forward to. My grades were effortlessly perfect, just like my social life. I had the only friend I needed, plus a few extras for entertainment. Human beings just liked to whine, and that was okay.

I looked at my best friend, Amber, and grinned as she did her summer reading report at the very last minute. "I'm so glad it's senior year," I sighed.

"Same," she said, rolling her eyes. "I was so done with all this math and English stuff."

"We still have to take one more semester of math in college," I pointed out. "But I think that's it. I mean, how much math could there possibly be if you're majoring in art?"

"Not much, but you may want to add some other business to that." Frowning, I tilted my head to look at her grinning face. "Not much to do in art. Besides, you're practically a genius. You could do so much more than art."

"It's not that I'm afraid I won't excel at it, I just don't enjoy it."

"It boils down to a matter of money, or happiness. Honestly, money is happiness."

"You know that's not true," I said quietly.

"C'mon. You don't exactly want to have a family and them be in the same position yours is now, do you?"

"Amber," I said, my voice warning. She sighed and ran a hand through her perfectly straight hair. I had to suffer through having dark, curly hair. It was often mistaken for black, but it wasn't black. It was just dark brown.

She looked around as we strode down the hall. "I still think you should try to sell some of your work. Your parents wouldn't be constantly giving you money to blow 'cause you'd have your own and it may help them get back on their feet. Plus, you could try and pay off your own car."

"I've tried selling my art," I sighed. "I just end up loving the piece in the end and I don't have the heart to sell it."

"I know. I remember that painting of a sunrise I offered to buy and you snatched it away and hung it in your bedroom," she said with a scowl.

Suddenly, the hall went very quiet. Only the clacking of my heels could be heard, but those quickly quieted down as I looked around in confusion. It was eerily silent and people's gazes were fixed on one thing: Nash Michaelson. I gasped and my eyes followed the boy, clad in black, as he walked nonchalantly down the hall.