the stars in my sky/viktuuri

Lighter

NOT YOI
im too tired to right something new right now. this was a winner in a creative writing competition (2nd place as the youngest participant in over 100 entries!!!!!!!im so proud of myself jfc)

He and I sat quietly on the park bench. The bench wasn't particularly long, but it still felt as if there were miles of emptiness in the inches of space between us. Tears were welling up in my eyes, yet they would never fall; I wouldn't let him see how weak I was becoming, but then again, I would never feel strong enough to get up on my own and leave him behind. I glanced his way cautiously, and a part of me wished that I could've seen the expression I had sprawled across my face painted on to his. I didn't. I only saw him, wearing a placid visage that made his eyes look as if they were made of glass.

   "Tell me a story," he suddenly whispered. I knew that he was directing his question towards me, but I still turned to him slowly, a cracking "what" escaping through my chapped lips. "Tell me a story," he repeated sheepishly, "about falling in love. About us. You always did tell the best ones."

   For a split second, his ocean blue eyes met with my forest green ones. Just like they had millions of times before, the land met the sea, and he flooded my mind all over again in a clash of turquoise green and tree bark-infested water.

   My mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. Only rigid breathing and the sound of our heartbeats, racing for first place, were heard. His eyes quickly diverted away, locking his gaze on to his worn-out black Converse. They were ratty and torn up, and I could still see the first day that he and I sat on this exact bench, when they were brand new and were his most prized possession.

   He didn't have much else at the time.

   They were worn every day for the last year since then. The sides were stained with acrylic paint I had flicked his way in annoyance and mud from the forest in which we walked through after I arrived home from school. How was it possible that something as simple as a pair of shoes could bring me back to every memory I had of him? Every school dance, every concert I dragged him along to, every church service he insisted we attend, and every family dinner; they appeared on every canvas, every picture, and every memory I had of the times we spent together.
Now, their presence brought me nothing but a numbing pain, seeping through my veins every time the now faded, dwindled black shoes came into my vision once again.

   I tried once more to let my voice redeem itself through the cave it carved in the back of my throat. "Once upon a time," I murmured, with a hint of pride glinting in my eyes for the fact that I had managed to say something without cowering away. Sighing, I stomped on my burnt-out cigarette that had been hanging from the corner of my mouth.

Clearing my throat, I closed my eyes, trying to imagine my words.

   "Once upon a time, there was a boy. The boy was alone, and he was a nobody.

   He couldn't do much to benefit himself in life, and he had very few friends. He was a mere shadow of the people he looked up to in his free time and longed for happiness for himself.

   He was an artist. He masked his dysphoria with beautiful water colors and he saw people only by the art that shined in their minds. He had come to learn that those whose appearances were bland and simple hid the most exquisite colors and shapes in their eyes, and sometimes those who seemed to be more unique held only black and white silhouettes sketched by messy charcoal pencils, kept away in their hearts. The only content feelings the artist got was from the masterpieces he saw in others, and he used them as inspirations for what he created. For hours, he would cover page by page in his sketchbook with messy templates of the unfamiliar faces he saw walking down the street.