“Well, if they’re ignoring you, it’s their loss,” Emmy says.
“Thanks.” I offer her a weak smile as I gather up my supplies.
When I’m finished cleaning and packing up my stuff, I wave goodbye to Emmy, who’s still hard at work. “I’ll see you later tonight.”
“See ya.”
My mood deteriorates as I trek across campus, ruminating further on my epiphany as the cold breeze burns the tips of my exposed ears.
Phantom doesn’t want to see me.
If they did, they would contact me, or come to my dorm, or find me between classes. But I haven’t heard a peep from them. That should tell me everything I need to know.
The simmering nausea that has been roiling my gut over the past few days also tells me something important. Something I’ve been feeling sickeningly guilty about—my evolving feelings for Phantom, which, after our trip to the gallery, have become much more intense.
But for them to just up and disappear like this, it’s obvious I read too much into our friendship. We’ve only hung out a couple of times, after all. Maybe they’ve decided they don’t like me much. Maybe I’m annoying. Or maybe they’ve realized I’m not in the same league as them with my art. I’m inferior, and they’ve finally figured it out.
My fists clench at my sides as I round on the north side of the Rembrandt Building. The brick wall is sliced in half by a block of large windows, stretching from one side of the building to the other. Inside are some of the student art studios. Trying to distract myself from my freshly dug pit of despair, I watch the row of students work as I walk by. The student in the first studio sketches, while the student in the second sculpts. I barely registerthe third, until my gaze snags on the painting they’re working on. It’s a striking portrait of a profile. A profile of a girl with shoulder length, messy brown hair, dark green eyes, and faded freckles. The corners of her mouth are downturned, and tears flow freely from her eyes.
I’m so shocked I almost trip over my own feet. The girl in the portrait looks disturbingly likeme.
Who the hell is painting this?
My gaze shifts to the painter. Their back is to the window, and their choice of loose, androgynous clothing gives nothing of their identity away. Even their hair is covered by a moss-green knit beanie. I honestly have no idea who it is.
Red hot annoyance sparks in my gut, but just as I march up to the window with my fist raised to knock against the glass and demand their attention, the painter stands from their stool and wipes their hands with a rag. Long, slender fingers raise to remove the beanie from their head, revealing a mess of shiny, raven hair. I watch as they sweep the mop of waves up into the tiniest ponytail I’ve ever seen, swiftly tying it off with a rubber band. The shorter strands tumble out of their rubber restraint, framing the painter’s face—Phantom’s face—in the most infuriatingly adorable way.
My fist falls from view; it’s all I can do to continue watching them in a daze.
They bob their head as they mix paint on a palette, and shuffle rhythmically from foot to foot as they stand before the canvas, then as they turn back around, I notice their lips moving beneath their mask, in time with a beat only they can hear. They’re listening to music, singing and shuffling along while they paint. For a moment, they look... not happy, exactly, but peaceful, perhaps? I’ve never seen them look like this before—completely relaxed and untroubled.
I don’t know what to do. Or how to feel.
Phantom is painting a portrait of a girl that looks far too similar to me. And yet, they aren’t returning my texts.
What does that mean?
Am I just some kind of creative outlet for them? Something they needed to get out of their system? Or are they as excited about our friendship as I am, and something just happened to their phone?
I guess there’s only one way to find out.
With freezing hands, I pull my phone from my pocket and thumb the screen with more force than necessary.
The shrill ring of the dial tone drowns out the rush of my pulse as I watch Phantom’s reaction. They turn from the canvas when they hear their phone go off. Unhurried, they set down their supplies, wipe their hands again, and walk to a small desk in the corner of the room. I slip further away from the window, not wanting to be caught spying. My breath stalls as Phantom picks up their phone and stares at the screen.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Silence.
Phantom declines the call and twists toward the canvas once more.
The expression on their masked face sends my anger floating away on the wind. Their gaze looks... pained. Like they’re in actual, physical pain. It doesn’t make any sense.
Why?
