destined. | h.s

26. in one manchester street

Ariella’s P.O.V

A free Tuesday night dropped in, and all I could do was a victory dance for me to be able to work on my entry. But the excitement overwhelmed me too much that I ran out of the ideas and subjects to put on my art.

I climbed up on the fancy little rooftop of our apartment, while Abi reprimanded me of what if our bills levitated to something beyond our reach, and have our lives out of the door, in case I make a paint catastrophe.

Then my boyfriend-NOT-boyfriend–HE STARTED THAT–decided to tell me he doesn’t know the definition of space and that he’s adherent to girls with the names of Ariella Cassandra Mendez, and I kind of started the argument that there is ten thousand percent of possibility I am not the only person living by that name.

I became busy trying to not let myself be sidetracked by Harry, while I gather up all the bottled emotions inside me and let them out through my paintbrush. 

Slowly, it all came in one piece, while the colours are carefully not splattered and spilled. He was there throughout the process, masticating on Chinese cuisine, while he tries to pick up what I meant by every stroke, every colour.

The moonlight lives to one of its root word, ‘light’, the only supply giving me a vision of the art. It wasn’t too rainbow nor too bland for your art taste. But, it’s me; it’s me in different shades of white, black, violet, orange and green. Intricately detailed, for that’s what I am, too; hazy character lucky to have people who understands her.

I gawked on it, paying attention to the even the littlest mistakes I can still correct, but no, my aim wasn’t perfect, my aim was for it to harmonize with me.

“So, girlfriend-not-girlfriend, I’m on full admiration for your creativity,” he laughs approaching me from the back and placing his hands on my shoulders, “You’re going to do really well, I guess.”

“Thanks,” I sighed, wiping up the literal sweat that I’ve released upon the making.

He reaches for the rammed on his jean pocket, and took a picture of the side of my project, “arstagram,” he read.

“No, not that caption, it sounded like ‘arse’”, I told him, both of us laughing on the little refuse.

“Fine, uhm, ‘under the moonlight’,” He suggests typing it quick on his phone.

“That’s better, I suppose.”

He got his February One wish a little too early, when his tenacious grip on the back of my shirt, resulted to a kiss. His arms were snaked around my waist, while mine were around his neck.

It never failed us both, as always, it felt like the very first time. Feeling his touch send my nerves to craze, while the beautiful butterflies come to life in my stomach and his warmth radiating on me.

“Cherry flavoured lipstick,” he mumbles under my lips, mine curving to a smile as I nod, he rummages through my stuff, and he probably knew it was always something to keep winter from having my lips feel like they’re ripping off.

I feel his lips touch my own again, slowly starting the rhythm, with his feet stepping forward to me, while I feel my back land on a wall. My other hand instinctively guided itself to his cold hair, brushing it slowly, while on the unforeseen event of him letting out a loud moan of my name startles us both. His warm breath suddenly sweeping through my face.

We both pull away, grinning at each other, letting the silence cross out the final moments, while I interlaced my fingers with his.

“I-I,” he blushes red in the middle of the cold wind, feeling myself follow, “I couldn’t hold that back, sorry.”