Demi Lovato Imagines

It's Called Art

"When did you start all this?"

My chest constricts despite the fact my body screams for more oxygen after sprinting up the stairs. It was like the sound of Demi's voice, asking about why 'that big cupboard door is open', was an explosive starting pistol sending me scrambling off the kitchen stools. 

"I...uhm..."

She turns around, looking at me with an expression I can't quite decipher. It's halfway between confused and sad, between tetchy and disappointed. Her lips purse. 

"...A while ago...I guess..."

She reads my body, the way I'm standing, the way my hand fumbles inside the pocket of my hoodie, fingering the tiny key I forgot to use. I'd become too complacent. Too used to the fact that my girlfriend, despite living in this house for almost three years, had not shown any interest in the huge door at the end of the corridor. 

"Can I see?"

I melt at the question, at her concern for my feelings. Because the things in that room are private, sure, but only because no one has ever known about them. Only because that 'huge door' was thought to conceal simply a disused cupboard or, more likely, not thought of at all. 

"Sure."

She must have seen a lot of it anyway, in the time it took to dart upstairs. And when she turns back around to step inside, she moves slowly as if navigating a space she knows to be somewhat untainted even though the opposite is true. Following a couple of paces behind, I tug on the chord hanging by the door, flooding the room with orange light. 

"How did I not know?" she whispers after long minutes have passed, still looking around with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. I scratch at my right hand with my left. 

"I come here when you're out. At work, or whatever. I don't know, whenever I have time to myself."

Which is often, I appendix internally, pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Saliva gushes between my teeth and I swallow hard to not let it show. She isn't looking at me, though. Her eyes are trained on the back wall which is covered almost completely. 

"Why haven't you told me?"

It's probably easier this way, not seeing her face. Especially when confronted with this question I guess I knew would come sooner or later. It's difficult to say: 'because all of this is about you', right to that person's face. 

"I haven't not told you..." I stall, choosing my next words carefully, "...I just figured you wouldn't want to know..."

I'd considered saying 'care to know' but thought better of it. Caring is something Demi has an abundance of, something I cannot deny. Nevertheless, I can see the way her jaw sets, even from behind, and her shoulders heave in a heavy sigh.

"I always want to know..." she says, "...if it's to do with you. I always want to know."

I feel a crushing weight on my shoulders as if the roof has collapsed in one almighty lump, breaking my back. Even though she's not looking at me, I nod. 

"...'kay...sorry..."

"Do you really think I don't care about you?"

"I know you do, Demi! That's not-...this isn't-..."

I breathe in, trying to dispel the rolling thunderclouds in my head.

"...This is all just stupid shit...I don't show you because it's nothing..."

She turns around slowly but not to look at me. She reaches out to the side, picking up the top canvas from a pile of about five, staring at it intently. I'm probably imagining it, willing it to be true, but I feel like I can see the bright colours reflected in her lenses, the fiery red and crocus pink explosions dancing across her vision.