Bleeding Color

11. The Cave

There are weeks that go by quickly, but somehow every day still feels like it takes forever to end. I don't know how to explain the feeling, but that's exactly how this week is going. Alycia is great and wonderful and perfect and I attempt to spend most of my time preoccupied with her presence, but I still can't get Logan out of the back of my mind. When I'm with Alycia, it's like I completely forget about Logan, but I can't be with Alycia all the time and with her busy life, she's honestly not the greatest at replying to texts. I can't – and I don't – blame her, but the moments I'm not next to Alycia are the ones that I seem to spend overthinking everything in my head.

The worst part about this week is that Logan actually keeps her promise. She disappeared that night at the Arts Center and hasn't showed up since. I haven't even seen glimpses of her in the hallway and when I stay after class to get help from Ms. Fitzpatrick, Logan doesn't show. It's like she was the imaginary friend I refused to believe in and eventually just left.

I give in Thursday after class has ended for the day and interrupt Chloe and Athena's heated debate about whether or not the Loch Ness Monster actually exists to ask where Logan is. They both look at each other and shrug, not an ounce of concern or worry on their faces. "She's probably at the cave." Athena suggests as if I know what she's talking about. "She's always there. Especially in her dramatic angst filled moments where she likes to disappear." It's a relief to know I'm not the only one who noticed her vanishing into thin air.

Chloe hands me my phone, and I run through the last few minutes in my head searching my brain's instant replay for when she managed to take it from me. She points to my phone's screen, saying, "I wrote the building code and apartment number in your notes. I can drop you off right now if you don't have other plans."

I shake my head slowly, still combing my short-term memory for when I was pickpocketed. "No plans." Complex thoughts aren't on my side at the moment. I feel seven steps behind everyone else around me. I even fail to realize that we've made it to Chloe's car in the parking lot and I've managed to secure myself in the backseat. The ride is a blur, much like everything after my inquiry about Logan, and before I know it, Chloe is sending me off with her words of wisdom. "If you can hear the music from the elevator, you've got the right place."

I slide out of the car, my mind in a constant state of buffering for no apparent reason. I make my way to Logan's floor and sure enough, I can hear the muffled sounds of music just before the elevator stops to let me off. I look at my phone one last time to check the matching number on the door in front of me and knock. I don't know what to say or even why I'm here, but my body is still moving and my mind is still struggling to keep up. I knock once more, but soon realize there's no way Logan can hear anything over the music she's playing and find my hand testing the doorknob. It's unlocked. I hesitantly make my way inside, feeling like a criminal for entering without an invitation.

My feet begin to weigh me down as the massive studio loft apartment floods my senses. To my right is a large and simple bed with a black headboard, but not much else resting on top of a gaudy white and gray fur rug that I'm praying is faux. Behind the bed are beautiful pieces of bright yet simple pieces of art contrasting the dull but captivating brick wall. To my left is a gorgeous kitchen that takes up a third of the space with stunning dark granite counters and an island with a built in bar at one end. Straight across from me, past the small living room and large flat dark couch that's easily overlooked is an entire wall of floor to ceiling windows overlooking what feels like the entire city but I know is only a small part of downtown.

Logan is nowhere to be found, but I tune back in and follow the epicenter of the music echoing through the massive apartment. There's a staircase that leads to a loft above the kitchen, and it leads me to what I assume to be any artist's paradise. There are canvases and easels everywhere and a cloth tarp laid on the floor as if it's just another piece of work to be admired. I round the corner of a rack of blank canvases and spot what I've been looking for.