Can't Afford To Lose Another Second With You (Scömìche)

Comfort

"Damn it!"

I realized I had said that out aloud when it was already too late. My teacher raised her eyebrows in confusion and surprise, coming up to me, arms crossed in front of her chest.

"What's wrong?" she asked, standing right behind me, observing my poor excuse of a painting.

"Look at it!" I replied irritatedly. "It's horrible!"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mitch. Your painting is amazing, as always. But if you're not satisfied, there's nothing you can't fix-"

"Don't talk to me about fixing problems," I hissed before I painted a cobalt line across the canvas, dropped the brush onto the table and ran out of the room, desperately trying to hold back my tears. But they came. They came and before I realized it I was sliding down the wall in the boy's restrooms, my hands hiding my face.

"Mitch-"

I didn't realize Mrs Anderson had followed me and I didn't know if I was glad she did. Somehow I was, hoping I could at least talk to someone, but another part of me was too caught up in my pride that I just wanted to be alone and never speak to anybody again. Since Scott was sick I didn't have anyone at school. Scott's friends, sure, but we were just friends because of Scott and when he wasn't there, there wasn't really a line between us.

Mrs Anderson? She was genuinely nice. But she was nice to everyone. I was glad she was my art teacher though, and I kind of considered her a friend. Isn't it sad to think of teachers as your friends because you're desperate and alone? But- what if she was a friend? What if her genuine kindness was her way of showing people she cared? She was in her mid-twenties, had just finished university, so it wasn't too sad to think of her as a friend. Or was it?

"Mitch, what's wrong?" she asked calmly and carefully. I shook my head.

"I'm fine." I wiped the tears from my face with my sleeve.

"You don't have to talk about it, but don't say you're fine. You don't have to do this to yourself."

I blinked. "What do you mean? What am I doing to myself?"

"You know..." she began, slightly insecure or so it seemed. "When people say they're fine while they're crying, it's most likely that they put themselves down, think less of themselves and their importance."

"So you're saying I'm mentally ill?"

She shook her head. "No, of course not. I don't know what's going through your mind, but I could tell that something must have happened for you to feel like this. Do you wanna share it? I promise I'll listen and won't judge."

I contemplated for a moment, thinking whether it was a good idea to just let it all out and tell her, finally deciding that maybe I should. Because... Just because.

"I'm sorry," I began, sniffling. But thankfully, there were no more tears.

"You don't need to apologize, it's okay."

"I- my parents- My mom says my art is crap."

"What?" She looked worried, confused and angry at once. "Why would anyone say that about your art?"

I shrugged weakly. "Maybe because it's true."

She shook her head no. "Mitch. You're the best artist this school has ever had. Everyone says that. I really don't understand why your mom would do this to you."

I nodded. "I- um... She- she also wants me to- uh..." I looked down to the ground, swallowing the lump in my throat. She had promised not to judge, so... I could just tell her, right?

"What does she want you to?" She asked, her voice encouraging.

"This is, um... kind of- kind of personal, so I don't know..." I trailed off, not knowing how to word anything I wanted to say.

"It's your choice, Mitch. I promised not to judge, whatever it may be, but if you don't want to tell me then I'm going to accept that."

"No, I- can I please-?"

She nodded encouragingly.

"My mom wants me to- to go to UD." I hesitated, before adding, "It's a Catholic school. She- uh... She thinks they could fix me."

My teacher raised her eyebrows in confusion. "Fix? What do you mean?"

I huffed, still avoiding her look. "I- um... I'm gay. And pretty open about it. Too open for my mother." I huffed again, forcing a laugh but it came out as a pained squeal. "And," I added after a while, "she wants me to break up with my- uh, my boyfriend."

I felt naked. Stripped to the core, put on display for everybody to see. But she squeezed my shoulder slightly, reassuringly, making me look up and meet her eyes.

"Whatever you do," she said, "don't let your family ruin your happiness. If you're happy with your boyfriend, then don't break up just because someone else tells you to."

I nodded. "Thank you. I- I'm not breaking up with him. I- I'm sorry this has nothing to do with art, I'm just- This is messing with me lately and I can't really focus on anything anymore."

"It's okay, Mitch," she said. "Let me tell you one thing. Before you graduate I want you to know that you're the best artist I had the honor to work with. You're incredibly talented and please, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. You're worth so, so much. Don't ever forget that."

"Thank you, Mrs Anderson. Really. It means a lot."

"And," she added with a smile. "Make sure your boyfriend treats you well. If he doesn't, he's not worthy of being with you. If you think he's too good for you, he's perfect."

I smiled a little in return, my heart warming at her words. "He is perfect," I replied. "And you're right, I do think he's too good for me."

Sighing, I stood up again. "Thanks for the talk, Mrs Anderson. And sorry for- for everything. I didn't mean what I said earlier."

"I know," she just said, her smile reassuring. "Do you want to go back to class?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I'll try to finish my painting."