The person I now fully believe is Phantom takes a deep breath before looking away. From the slight crinkle in the skin around their eyes, I think they may be smiling beneath the cloth. They murmur something under their breath that I can’t hear.
“What was that?” I ask, every tingling molecule in my body suddenly on high alert.
“I was just saying that you shouldn’t waste your time and energy worrying. This painting will have a phenomenal reception.”
“Thanks. You know, I—” I’m about to formally introduce myself when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I curse under my breath and grab it, finding a text from Franco inviting me to come to their place for another party.
“Sorry,” I apologize aloud. “My friends are just inviting me out. I don’t mean to be—” The sound of the roof door slamming shut rattles my ear drums. “—Rude.”
I whirl around, confirming, once more, that I’m wholly and utterly alone. Anger flares red-hot in my stomach, but the flames are quickly doused by a slushy mixture of sadness and longing.
There goes my opportunity.
My shivering arms cradle my chest while I remind myself that I don’t even know whether the stranger trulyisPhantom or not. That was just a knee-jerk assumption I made based on years’ worth of evidence—a fact I should definitely be embarrassed to admit out loud. But regardless, even if they are Phantom, why would they want to hang around me? Phantom’s in an entirely different league of artists. They wouldn’t want to be my friend anyway.
No. This is better. Now I’ll never know for sure, one way or the other, and I’ll never have to know the pain of Phantom’s rejection.
Yes, this is perfectly fine.
As the delicate sapphire dusk finally conquers the sky, my aloneness suffocates me; anxiety ready to crush my chest and throttle me dead unless I do something, anything, to get out of my own damn head.
Pure adrenaline heaves the air through my lungs as I quickly finish the painting, then grab my phone and respond to Franco’s text.
I’ll be right there.
14Rookie
Two full weeks have gone by since the night I finished the painting on the roof. I waited to post the painting on social media until the following day, and luckily, the stranger from the roof—the stranger who, despite my most valiant efforts to move on, has been haunting my every thought—had been right. My painting’s receptionwasphenomenal. So much so, it went well beyond my wildest dreams.
While my completed piece depicted the same hand as the one from Zayne’s photograph, the composition I went with was markedly different. Instead of the hand floating among a bright white background, the hand in my rendition floated among the constellations, losing its grip on the stars themselves, as opposed to measly grains of sand.
But, even given the striking differences between our work, our themes remained the same; highlighting humankind’s futile attempt at maintaining a grip on time.
Zayne was so impressed, he’d come running to campus, only to find me, Emmy, and Iris on the quad, lounging in the weak autumn sunlight, sipping celebratory lattes. He’d picked me up straight off the dewy ground, and crushed me in an embrace.
“Holy shit! You’re a maniac,” he’d cried.
“Does that mean you like it?” I’d asked.
Then, without warning, he’d taken out his phone, snapped a selfie of us, and posted it instantly online. “I fucking love it.”
We’ve done three livestream sessions discussing our collaboration since then, each one attracting over ten thousand viewers. But even more wild than that, the collaboration, which Zayne and I had affectionately namedThe Greatest Lost Cause(TGLCfor short), had snagged the attention of...them.
Phantom.
Every molecule of air had evaporated from my lungs after I’d gotten the text from Emmy.
Check social media right this second. Someone special is posting about TGLC.
I’d pulled up the app, and saw the tagged video in my notifications center. My thumb had trembled as I clicked on it.
A video of Phantom had popped up, dressed in their signature white ensemble—mouthless ski mask and all—pointing toward a photo of my painting in the corner of the frame, and giving the camera the ‘ok’ hand sign. ‘Check it out’ the text on the video read, with my and Zayne’s social media handles listed in the caption.
I’d cried like a blubbering baby for an hour straight, unable to keep the disappointment and regret from boiling and bubbling over. If the stranger on the roof was indeed Phantom, I’d missed my shot. I’d missed the one chance I had to meet them, to thank them, tolearnfrom them.
I don’t think this sinking feeling will ever dissipate, but at least I have this—Phantom publicly and proudly tipping their metaphorical hat at me. Acknowledgment from my muse. A dream come true.
It’s enough. It has to be enough.
