My confidence wavered, chipped away by years of trying to meet everyone’s expectations. I wondered if I could truly stand on my own, or if I had been fooling myself all along. The soft pastel colors on the canvas, painted in my usual bold, abstract style, felt strange and unfamiliar. The gentle hues, applied with my characteristic intense strokes, clashed in a way that mirrored my own mixed emotions. A sad laugh that turned into a sob escaped my lips. It was as if the painting itself was caught in the same uncertain, in-between stage I was in.
Tears brimmed in my eyes as I sat there, clutching the paintbrush. The weight of my insecurities, and the heartbreak I had tried to bury, threatened to overwhelm me, and I angrily ripped the canvas from the frame, throwing the brush across the room. My eyes landed on the small table by the window, where my phone lay.
The urge to call Sebastian gnawed at me, despite knowing it wouldn’t solve anything. It was a pull, born out of a deep-seated need for comfort and familiarity. The breakup had left me feeling untethered, like a ship adrift without its anchor. Sebastian had been that anchor, my constant during uncertain times.
I thought back to my first year of college, to a particularly painful memory.
It was a cold, gray evening during my first year of college, and the words of my professor stung like a fresh wound: “Your work lacks depth and feeling, Vinnie. While it is technically proficient, it lacks an emotionalconnection. It’s all too safe, too controlled. Art should evoke something in the viewer, and right now, your pieces just don’t.”
He had critiqued my latest series—geometric landscapes and meticulously detailed sceneries. I had poured hours into perfecting each line and color, but it still wasn’t enough. His words cut deep, leaving me feeling exposed and inadequate.
Desperate and defeated, I called Sebastian. He picked up immediately, his voice warm and soothing. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
The tears spilled over as I choked out that I needed to see him. Without hesitation, Sebastian told me to come over. His dorm was just a short walk away, and soon I was knocking on his door, my heart heavy with disappointment.
Sebastian opened the door and immediately pulled me into a comforting hug. “It’s okay,” he murmured, his hand stroking my back. “Come in.”
I sank onto his bed, feeling the weight of the day’s events. Between sobs, I explained how the professor had dismissed my work as lacking emotion and depth. Sebastian listened, his jaw tightening in anger. “What a jerk,” he muttered, shaking his head. “He has no idea what he’s talking about.”
After a pause, Sebastian’s expression shifted to one of mischievous defiance. “You know what? Maybe you should throw some paint at the canvas,” he suggested, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Seems like that’s all some modern art is these days. Just slap some colors on there and call it a masterpiece.”
I looked up at him, a small, disbelieving smile forming despite my tears. “You mean just make a mess?”
He grinned, his eyes lighting up with a playful spark. “Yeah! Why not? Show that professor how wrong he is. Forget all the rules and just . . . go wild.”
His words struck a chord, igniting a spark of rebellion in me. “That’s actually . . . not a bad idea.”
With a shared glance of conspiracy, we decided to sneak into the college art studio, the thrill of breaking the rules adding an exhilarating edge to the night. We found ourselvesstanding before a large blank canvas, the studio lights casting a soft glow around us. Sebastian grabbed a can of bright red paint and handed it to me. “Go on, show me what you’ve got.”
For a moment, I hesitated. Then, with a surge of emotion, I dipped my hand into the paint and flung it at the canvas. The splash of color felt freeing, a defiant release of all the frustration and anger I had been bottling up. Sebastian joined in, mockingly smearing paint with exaggerated strokes, laughing as we both created a chaotic masterpiece.
We lost track of time, caught up in the rebellious joy of it all. Our clothes were splattered, our hands covered in paint, but we didn’t care. We stepped back to admire our work—a wild, abstract explosion of colors and emotions. It was messy, imperfect, and absolutely liberating.
Later, as we lay on the studio floor, our bodies sticky with drying paint and the smell of turpentine in the air, we talked about everything and nothing. The exhilaration of the night still buzzed between us, a shared sense of rebellion and freedom. Eventually, we cleaned up, and snuck back to Sebastian’s dorm, laughing softly to ourselves, careful not to wake his roommates.
In the dim light of his bathroom, we stepped into the shower together, the hot water washing away the paint and sweat. The steam enveloped us and, as the paint swirled down the drain, so did the last remnants of my fears and inhibitions. It was there, under the warm spray, that we made love—not for the first time, but it felt different. More intense and raw. It seemed like the paint washed away the last of the walls we had both put up. The vulnerability and passion of the moment was overwhelming, leaving us both breathless and deeply connected.
From that day on, my art changed. The structured, precise lines of my earlier works gave way to bold, chaotic strokes and vivid colors. I no longer feared the judgment of others or the potential mess of failure. Sebastian had helped me embrace the chaos, to express my emotions on the canvaswithout restraint. My paintings became a true reflection of my inner world—wild, unpredictable, and deeply felt.
As I sat in the cottage, lost in the vivid memories of that night, a sudden sharp sound brought me back to the present. The wind had picked up outside, causing a tree branch to tap persistently against the windowpane.
I was left with a bittersweet ache from the memory of that night. For a moment, all the reasons I had for leaving Sebastian seemed to blur, overwhelmed by the longing for the comfort and passion we once shared. It was as if all the bad stuff—the neglect, the dismissive comments about my art—faded away, leaving only the warmth of his encouragement and the thrill of our rebellious adventure. My hand instinctively reached for my phone on the table, the urge to hear his voice, to feel that connection again, almost overpowering.
We hadn’t spoken since my mother’s birthday a few weeks ago, and the conversation had been stiff and polite, tinged with the awkwardness of our unresolved breakup. Sebastian had made small talk, trying to find a way to connect, but I kept my responses short, not wanting to give him any false hope. It was clear he wanted to fix things, to go back to the way things were, but I couldn’t pretend that everything was fine. The weight of our shared history, and the expectations from both our families, made every word feel like a minefield. I quickly excused myself, sneaking away from the party, not wanting to confront the reality of our broken relationship.
That night, I felt the overwhelming need to escape the pressure and confusion that had become my life in Cresden. I realized I needed to getaway, to find a place where I could think and breathe without constant reminders of what others expected of me. That was how I decided on Hallow’s End—a place where I could start fresh, away from the complications of my old life.
I scrolled to his name in my contacts, pausing as his picture appeared on the screen. It was a goofy selfie he had set as his contact photo when we first started dating—his attempt at making me laugh during one of our dates. My finger hovered over the call button. It was a dangerous temptation, a pull towards the familiar comfort and chaos he represented.
I never told Sebastian I was leaving, but I knew my mother had likely informed him. The day I was supposed to leave, a package arrived at my door—a gift from Sebastian. He always had a flair for grand gestures, and this was no exception. Inside was an expensive leather travel journal, embossed with my initials, and a set of high-quality sketching pencils. It was thoughtful, almost too perfect, like he was trying to cover all the bases. But it felt wrong, like a gift from a stranger who didn’t truly understand what I needed. I left the journal behind, unopened, as if doing so would sever the lingering ties between us.
If only it were that easy.
His messages and calls were still muted on my phone, the notifications piling up like tiny ghosts haunting my screen. I never opened them, afraid of what I might find. His apologies, his pleas, his attempts to pull me back into his orbit. The allure of those unopened messages was a constant temptation, especially in moments of weakness, but blocking him felt like a step I wasn’t ready to take. A final severance that was too daunting to confront. The fear of truly cutting him out of my life kept me tethered, even as I tried to move forward.
I wondered if he still thought about me, if he missed us as much as I sometimes missed the comfort of what we had. I imagined what it wouldbe like to hear my name on his lips again, the familiar honey of his voice washing over me. The thought of his touch, the way he knew exactly how to make me feel needed, pulled at my heart.
But a new fear crept in—what if he had started to move on? I had ignored his calls and messages for weeks. What if, in my absence, he had given up on us? The idea that he might have found a way to move forward without me, despite his efforts to reconnect, made me hesitate. I knew it was selfish, to want him to still chase after me, to hope he might change and become the partner I needed. It made little sense, yet the thought lingered. My finger hovered over the call button, paralyzed by the possibility of both hope and heartbreak.
