Jake has a lover from the past, though he remembers her in this life too. She was his reasons for all inspiration, his work of art, and his to bring him pain. Yet what separates them was this new life.
When he does manages to find her, will she reco...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
» [Dancing with your ghost by Sasha Alex Sloan] « 0:50 ─〇───── 3:17 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻
Jake had never felt worse in his entire life, in all of them, actually—than he did when the cab drove away, increasing the distance between him and his lover, dragging him away from the only happiness he'd ever known.
As soon as he stepped out of the cab, he broke down, crouching in the middle of the street, and sobbing like a little child. What if the old lady was mistaken? What if he'd just let you walk out of his life again, and lost you for good in this life too.
He 'd gone to Namjoon's exhibition, like always. The man was one of the rare people who really understood Jake's love for crafts and saw his art for what it was. He was also one of the very people who bought his work and helped him stay afloat.
Out of all the places in the world, his lover arrived there. Her legs took her to the very paintings he'd painted, ones that were similar to those he'd made all the way back to their life together, when life was simple, and when they still had each other. Jake missed it, all of it.
His heart ached, and now his head was starting to contract in pain too, from all the crying and thoughts that swarmed his mind.
He missed you, missed your family, and he missed the person he used to be. Who Jake was today greatly differed from the man he was back then, mostly because he'd become so bitter and hopeless, lost in despair while trying to relive his old life through paintings. He even saw a therapist who thought his thoughts of a past life were concerning.
Don't seek her out. Even if you do see her, don't approach her, don't say a word.
The words almost tauntingly replayed in his head, once again reminding him of his fate as he got up from the crouching position. He couldn't care less if his neighbours were to see him with tears running down his face, wetting his shirt, because that was the least of his worries. He was just sick, and tired of life by now, but there was no point in ending it—he would just be reborn again, and sentenced to another lifetime of looking for you.
After a shower, Jake felt a little better, but the pain in his chest was never really gone, though he was just used to it by now. He'd tried to drown it before—in alcohol, drugs, parties, and in other partners, but nothing really came close. It felt like a whole lifetime was missing, not just a piece. You were never just a piece of the puzzle to Jake.
Even back then, he'd known you were the one for him from the instant that you two had met. Your parents were against it—his because you were of lower class, and yours because they'd only seen him as a spoiled rich kid who didn't have an honest day of work under his belt. Your father warned you that he wasn't a man who could secure a roof over your head and keep you fed and warm, and Jake's parents thought he'd get bored of you quickly, that you weren't presentable enough for their friends, and definitely not someone who should be brought to their home to meet them.
Still, you two made it work. Jake's uncle left him the house by the lake, the house where his only good memories were made. You lived there until the end, and he treasured that memory. He wasn't sure on how long it lasted, or how the two of you had died back then, or what happened to your children afterwards, but he was sure you'd lived a good, happy life together, filled with lots of happiness and comfort, and only a bit of tears. But even they turned happy after a while.
With that being said, how could he ever bring up the courage to cease you from his memory? He'd painted you over and over again, because there wasn't a single moment where you didn't bombard his mind. You consumed Jake's every thought, and rather easily at that. To the point that his apartment was filled with your portraits, hung in the hallways, walls, in one way or another, Jake found rooms for each and everyone of them—just like how you did back then.
The image—or the best replica of it to this day—hung in his bedroom, right across from his bed. When Jake wakes up, it would be the first thing that he sees. When he goes to bed, his last memory of the night would be your face on a canvas that'd been splattered with paint, yet that was what comforted him.
Back then, you'd go to bed together, with the child lying between you both so it wouldn't fall out of bed and get hurt. Jake appreciated what he had even back then when he was living in it, but he appreciated it even more now that it was no longer here. He'd give anything to have you in his bed again, the child to latch onto you and kick him in the back with its tiny feet, wake him up from his slumber. He'd give anything, but even that wouldn't change a thing. It was a fated love, a cursed one.
