Coloured Me Grey (Book Two)

Chapter 8

I followed the boy silently but I was so behind him, that he disappeared behind the doors of the studio long before I could reach him. He might not have even heard my footsteps. I'd been as quiet as a cat.

Hm, but I NEED to know who that is. Think, Riyaaz, think.

I started running in the opposite reaction, toward the reception counter and called out my goodbyes to the lady there (we're friends now!) and circled round the building to stop right before the window of Studio-8. Standing on tiptoes, I could see the boy setting up a canvas on a dusty easel and taking out charcoal pencils.

Of course, he didn't notice me. Nobody frequented this side of the campus much, so I'd be safe. But.

To ensure my safety further, I scaled the wall. And planted myself right on the window sill.

Now now now, what are You up to, mystery boy?

Of course, he's up to drawing on a canvas in an abandoned studio, but just... THAT SOUNDED COOL IN MY HEAD!

***

I don't know why I'd waited for him to start drawing that day. Maybe because he was quite a looker himself. But not just because of his looks. I knew I was attracted to him for some entirely different reason that I could not put my finger on.

Never judge a book by its cover? Bullshit.

Everyone judge others by their appearance first. And then, if that's interesting enough, then they'd approach each other.

He'd been working on this piece for three weeks now. Every day he'd sneak out of the last class and walk very softly toward the abandoned studio. He was really lightfooted for a guy.

But so was I.

It took him over a week to finish the sketch. I couldn't see exactly who it was, but I figured he was sketching a face. The vague outlines were enough to tell me that he was a painter. He did not sketch in details - he'd do that while he'd be painting.

And even after one week of following a cute boy to a seemingly blank canvas, I was stuck with him unintentionally, I wanted to see how the painting turned out. He'd stay in the studio, working, for exactly an hour each day; I'd be late in returning home by exactly an hour because of some imaginary hour long class.

In the second week he started using acrylic colours to paint. And very interestingly, the very first colour he used on the canvas was BLACK.

Every artist, amateur, newbie or professional, knew that one should start painting with the lightest colours on their palette and then slowly move to the darker ones. By that, black should be the last colour you use.

I had watched silently in surprise when the boy had smeared the pure white canvas with black. There was something quite mysterious and dark about it - the aura of the room had changed.

I HAD to stay now.

You have read all that shit on the internet about the connection between colour and human feelings, right? Well, let me tell you, that shit is real. That pure black canvas was like a dark, endless abyss wishing to suck the boy into it, and I was the helpless mere spectator. Then came spurts of yellow here and there. Shock. Disappointment. Red and orange flames. Force. Violence. Anger. It was overwhelming the way it made my breath hitch in my throat as I wondered how much worse the boy was feeling it.

Why wasn't he dead yet? Talk about wearing your heart on your sleeve. That gets you killed. Emotions are to be suppressed, not expressed. Shh, no.

After three weeks, the canvas now looked as if it was on fire. As if the darkness of the canvas was lit up by the fire but then again the fire was burning it down. That's the thing with fire - it either lights or it burns. It looked beautiful yet terrifying.

"What the hell?"

I almost fell off my perch when I heard the voice. I had been so engrossed in thinking about the painting that I hadn't even noticed the boy discovering me. Then again, I wasn't exactly hiding undercover or something - he was bound to turn his head in this direction someday or the other. I wonder why he hadn't he done it sooner.

My heart was beating erratically after getting caught. I never thought about the consequences before. Then again, I never do. What did I even think? That -

Don't go into a fucking monologue now, you pig.

Yeah, right. I jumped into the room from the window.

"You scared me," the boy gasped. "What are you doing here?"

"Watching you paint?" I shrugged, trying to play it cool and watching him pack his backpack.

"That's really creepy. For how long have you been here?"

"Last three weeks?"

His eyes bulged out of their sockets. "All the time sitting there?"

I nodded.

"And I just wanted to be alone somewhere," he sighed and left.

The fire. It was burning.

This is a teaser chapter. Of course ya'll wouldn't get to know the name anytime sooner. I'm an evil author. Also, hope you had a very Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year. There's this meme doing its rounds about how the first half of 2018 and the second half of 2018 felt like two separate years, and honestly, I fucking relate. I met this amazing person through whom I met amazing people this year after being absolutely deserted by other amazing people with whom I later reunited. In short, 2018 was a year of drama for me. And I'm kinda grossed out with it, but also kinda glad. It was a year of self-discovery, a year of learning that yes, even I can feel, and that it is not bad to have emotions and express them. I'm still working on that express part though. My university is an amazing place. The campus is like a miniature model of a town. 2018 was so fucking weird. I hope 2019 is equally weird if not weirder.

This chapter is dedicated to Mxxnfxxt for being such an amazingly wholesome reader. I really appreciate it. Thank you so much, you wonderful person. :')

See you next year, fellas!!