Typical.

Chapter 1: Matches

"Come on, you've got it, Ev," I said to myself as I narrowed my eyes, hunching my back a bit, and dabbed lightly underneath the horizon. This was the toughest part, I had to make it look real, beautiful, perfect. Leaning back, setting my palate down on the floor, I looked at the canvas. I tilted my head. "Fuck," I muttered. I put too many highlights. 

Before I could let it stress me out, I turned away. I'd worked too hard on that piece to throw it all away for some damn highlights on the water. I just needed to sleep on it and fix it in the morning. I glared around my room, standing from my wooden art stool. The walls and floors were splattered with paint from accidents in the past. I was supposed to put a tarp down before I began, but honestly, who had time for that? The brown wood had droplets of paint everywhere, but I didn't mind. My room was essentially a bed, dresser, stool, art table, and eisel. There was a huge window by my bed that allowed perfect light for my painting. There was a bin in the corner full of canvases, paint, brushes, and other stuff that I couldn't be bothered to keep away. I loved my room. It was my sanctity. Even though the floor creaked and the wall was angled by the door because my room was on the top floor. Even though I had a bathroom that was out of date. It was my place.

My house was a townhouse downtown. It was tall rather than wide. It only had room for one or two rooms on each floor, but we had four floors. A kitchen and dining room, a basement, my mom's room and guest room, then mine. 

Walking out of my room and into my bathroom, shuffling in my fluffy socks, I glared at my less than perfect reflection. My long, chocolate brown curls were tied up in a bun and held in place by a red bandana. Hairs had fallen out by my face and paint was smeared on my cheeks and around my eyes. I was outstandingly, strikingly ordinary. My cheeks were flat. My eyes were hazel. My lips were thin. My body consisted of mainly angles. My shoulders were square, my collarbones were straight, my chest was damn near flat. I was terribly disproportional. I had a short torso, all legs like a barstool. I had long arms I didn't know what to do with and narrow shoulders. I was an average height. Average weight. Less than average cup size. Nothing about me screamed pretty or unique or even interesting. The only thing pretty or unique or interesting about me came from my hands.

My hands were rough and dry and calloused from too many washings, having been abused by paint. My fingers were long and nimble, able to attend to the smallest of details. The only thing unordinary about me was my art. I just seemed to see beauty in things that other people don't. Art is expression, like a diary, or writing a song, or doing your makeup. It is stress relief like sleep or going for a run. It's my convalescence. The thing that keeps me sane.

I scrubbed the paint off my hands and wandered back into my room, stripping down to my bra and underwear, tossing my dirty clothes into the corner. I'd deal with them later. Thank god I didn't have a full length mirror anymore. I hated that thing. I'd see myself walking by and see how painfully ordinary I was, or maybe even get a glimpse of myself naked. My chest was too flat, my hips were too narrow, my butt wasn't impressive. There was a point when I could count my ribs, but, thankfully, I'd gained enough weight to hide them. 

That mirror just made it possible for me to see something as imperfect as my body. So I smashed it. Easy fix, right?

I slipped on a pair of sweats and a tee that wasn't mine. I didn't even want to think of its owner, I missed him too much. I saw my phone glow on my bed and nearly broke my neck lunging for it. 

1 missed call, 2 text messages.

I opened one seeing that it's from Noah. Ignoring it, I moved onto the next one. Text message from Liam Payne.

"Hey, did you ask your mom yet?"

Liam?

Oh, shit, Liam. I totally forgot. How could I forget?