Hate Me Love Me

13| Coloured Discovery 🌈

֍҉֍҉♥҉֍҉֍

"We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give." --- Winston Churchill.

֍҉֍҉♥҉֍҉֍

I've added the important contacts back to my phone, but I don't know Christian's number, so I'll have so meet him again to get it. My social media accounts don't really matter. I didn't have many followers anyways other than some random people and my friends from the public school who I haven't spoken to in years, but know what they look like from their posts.

Clementine is back, and I saw her pressed against the wall next to a water dispenser, a boy with light brown hair kissing her like she's the water to his desert. At breaktime, she sits with some other guys who were throwing paper balls at me in English class. Alaric didn't come to school on Tuesday, which was yesterday, but he's here today and he's smirking at me from his table in the centre of the cafeteria. 

A smirk that says, I won. I got you to come to the cafeteria.

I sit alone in my spot next to the window, ignoring everything and everyone around me as I read another online book I'd downloaded when I got home on Monday. It's a romance novel, because I have a pathetic love life and need some good stories. I'm at an emotional scene where the boy's crying his heart out because his soulmate left the country without a word, when I feel cold breath on my right ear, and the strong smell of paint.

In an instant, I snap my head away from his, and narrow my eyes at him.

He looks at me with a sort of curiosity in his gaze, tilting his head slightly as he straightens his back.

'If only you would cry in front of me like that,' he says longingly, slightly furrowing his eyebrows in deep thought.

I narrow my eyes and feel the anger coming in.

'Are you a sociopath? Because that would make everything you do and say a lot clearer to understand,' I grit out.

'I just want to see you cry,' he says it as if that explains everything. Like it answers all the why's. 

But it doesn't.

'You're sadistic. Go watch videos of people crying.'

'It doesn't work that way,' he says, frustrated.

'I don't get anything you're saying,' I put another spoonful of blueberry yogurt in my mouth and twist the spoon around, sticking my tongue in the concave curve of the spoon.

'It's better for me if you don't.'

'Since when do I care about what's better for you? I'm not your mom!' the second the last word slips out of my mouth, he freezes. 

I watch as he goes back in deep thought and leave him to it. Whatever his crazy mind is thinking doesn't concern me.

Only it does. In a way I may never truly understand.

I turn back to the book and read, not noticing when Alaric goes away.

It's part of the school syllabus to stay an hour after school for clubs, unless you have a note of excuse. I tutor in the afternoon before dinner, so I have time between club and tutoring to study, and after dinner as well. Practice tests keep coming and the assignments keep me up almost all night.

I wave to the girl from the library who gave me the finger, whenever I see her, just for the heck of it. And I always get another middle-finger in return. It's become sort of like an involuntary movement for the both of us.

Sort of a tradition.

There's a showcase every month displaying the best achievements of every club. The poetry club has quite a few people, most of them just doodling on the paper while the teacher briefly goes over a poem and leaves us to analyse it and present our analysis in front of the class.

It's a cloudy day outside when I finally leave my club room last. The teacher wanted to see if I was interested in some poetry contests, and I told her I'd look into it when I knew I wouldn't.

I don't like publicly displaying my poems. They can reveal a lot about a person, and I specifically requested for her not to put my work up on showcase day when she not-so-subtly declared that my analysis of love deserves an audience.

The school is almost empty except for the staff and a few people who're still at their lockers, or asking teachers for help with some work.

I walk across the hall with my bag on my shoulder and my laptop in my hands. I didn't dare go to Alaric's mansion for the library. Instead, I went to the faithful, reliable internet for my research. The time I would normally spend reading, I spent with Dylan. 

The twins I have to tutor are kind-of naughty, but they're fast learners and we've started to bond a little. The parent's are really nice as well, but they're mostly always busy with work and trying to give a comfortable life to their children.

I see a yellow-ish light coming out from a room in the far end of the hall, and walk towards it to close the light.

I care about energy-saving.

Because I'm cool like that.

I poke my head inside the room and stretch my free hand out to meet the switch, but my eyes catch something in the back corner of the room.

There're easels everywhere with stools behind them.

An art room.

But the easel at the back has a certain raven-haired, indigo-eyed boy behind it. Alaric bends his back slightly over the painting, adding a minor touch, then stepping back with his palette in his hand to observe the overall effect. He bites the corner of his lips, taking my attention. I watch in amusement as he curiously tilts his head and looks frustrated all of a sudden. And then the anger is gone as soon as it came, and he's adding more details.

The palette, I notice, is filled with colours. I can't see his painting, but I can tell it's a colourful one. If I didn't truly believe that he was a painter before, I certainly do now, though it beats me why a guy like him would paint in colours. I expected him to paint grey, black and white pictures. 

Not that it matters. He can paint whatever the hell he wants. 

It's not as if I'm curious. I turn around to walk away. 

Only, I am curious.

֍҉֍҉♥҉֍҉֍