She drags me up the stairs, not letting go of my hand.
"Okay." She stops in front of a door with what looks like liquid space 'dripping' from the top of the door.
"Did you paint that?" I ask, astonished.
"I did, actually," she says, stroking the painting. "When I was twelve years old."
"Twelve?!"
She giggles. "Mmhmm. Wait until you see the inside."
She opens the door and walks inside. Even after only taking one step into her room, I'm already amazed.
Every single inch of space on her walls is covered in detailed paintings of almost anything. There's one wall that's entirely just an enlarged copy of Vincent
Van Gogh's Starry Sight.
"I did all this myself." she says, walking over to the wall of Starry Night. "It all has emotion behind it," She points a painting of a very colourful forest. "That one was made with sadness," She points to a sunset above her bed. "That one was made with love, love for you, actually."
I chuckle. "I'm pretty sure I like you more, but we'll have to see."
YOU ARE READING
The Story of Us
RomanceHow they met, how he fell appart, and how she rebuilt what they thought was broken forever.
