Scribbling Onto Sticky Notes

Chapter One- 6 a.m.

  

  Cold. 

  I'm cold. Cold and alone. I miss him. 

  Him and his warmth. His smile, his mind, his nighttime friends, his dreams...

  Why couldn't I just stop before I sent him away?

  It's six in the morning and I'm still awake, because I can't seem to get him out of my head. The only thing I'm holding on to is this damned pillowcase- my pillow must have escaped when I was squeezing it hard against my chest.

  I haven't drawn in weeks. I can't. I lost my inspiration. The only thing that I am left with are countless yellow "post-it" notes with black pen doodles of his vivid dreams, of his nightly visitors that he spoke of so beautifully, even if he was asleep.

  Fresh, wet tears began to erupt from my tear ducts to begin mingling with old, dry, sticky tears on my sad cheeks. As I began to wipe them away, I felt the facial complexion that did not feel like my own at all- it was scruffy and stressed; I had wrinkles and marks from my sadness and worry. This was not the same joyful, fulfilled, love-stricken face that had been my own for years and years... Hell, it wasn't even the same face from a few weeks ago. What happened to me? 

  I stayed in bed, shivering even though I was buried beneath layers of bed sheets. 

  I did this to myself.

  I will never be able to fix what I've done.

  And this all started at the local art museum's gift shop...