“This thing might as well be an extension of your hand. You never set it down or let it out of your sight. Am I really that boring?” he asks, his tone sharpening.
My jaw drops. “What? Of course not.”
“Then what is it?” The tension bleeds from his brow, releasing the pinched skin above the bridge of his nose. “Why do you look at your social media so much?”
My cheeks flame under his scrutiny. “I share my art there. I’m looking to see what people think of it... whether they like it,” I admit quietly, and more than a bit shamefully. It feels like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t, but that’s bullshit. He uses his social media just as much as I use mine.
Noah’s mouth pulls into a frown before saying, “Ilike your art, Maeve.”
“I know you do,” I mutter as my erratic pulse slows.
Noah closes the distance between us, squatting beside my chair to gently tuck stray face-framing flyaways behind my ear. “Then who cares what anyone else thinks?” he asks softly.
But he doesn’tgetit. He probably never will. He’s never been overlooked a day in his life, never had to compete for his parents’ attention, never had to prove to the world he’s worth something. He’s an only child. His self-worth has been reinforced with every good report card, every sports trophy, and every breath through his lungs.
I’ve had to fight tooth and nail for mine.
If I’m being completely honest with myself, I share my art for attention. Acknowledgment. Understanding. If I could make justone personfeel something real with my art, like how Phantom’s art consistently makes me feel, it would be the highlight of my entire year.
All I want to do is connect. Connect with someone on a deeper level than I can with Noah and my family. Because every day that goes by without that connection feels like slowly bleeding out, growing colder and weaker day by day.
No one can seeme. All anyone ever does is see through me.
“You’re right,” I lie, letting the transparent, paper-thin version of myself take over. “Who cares.”
I give him what I hope is a convincing smile. It seems to work. He hands me my phone back and quickly kisses my forehead.
“I love you, M.”
“Love you too.”
And I mean it. I’m pretty sure I mean it. Like 97% sure.
After class, Noah and I split up and I’m dragging my feet again, reluctantly shuffling to the stuffy little coffee shop on campus to wait until my next class. Curled up like a contented cat in a worn leather armchair in the corner of the shop, a steaming mug of peachy green tea in one hand, I sketch mindlessly with the other. More doodles than anything, but it soothes the turbulent ruminations consuming the space between my ears all the same. Creating art, even something as silly and inconsequential as doodling, puts every SSRI I’ve ever been prescribed to shame.
At the sound of my phone chirping, reminding me of the time, my spirits lift, and I pack up my sketch pad and dash across campus before weaving through the art building’s cramped halls. When I enter the studio allocated to my advanced painting course, I find my classmates retrieving their canvases from the storage cabinet. After I free my canvas from the darkness, a rush of warmth seeps through me.
I’m especially proud of this painting.
It’s an abstract, my first ever. It was inspired by a painting of Phantom’s from a few months back. A purposely messy, complicated mixture of shapes, colors, and media. I sketched with charcoal pencil first, laying out the shapes, mostly circles and ovals—giving the piece dimension. Then I layered on several coats of oil paint in varying hues of blue and green, allowing the dark charcoal marks to peek through from beneath by using turpentine to dilute them into a diverse array of consistencies. Intentionally, I left small sections of the canvas bare, finding quiet beauty in the spaces left undisturbed. It still needs a bit more work, but it’s almost there. Almost perfect.
Quickly running my fingertips over the self-made hills and valleys, I decide on my next course of action. I carry the canvas back to my easel, perch it safely upon the ledge, and step to stand a few feet away, assessing. After pulling my phone from my backpack, I set it up against a stack of textbooks to my right and angle the camera toward the easel before starting a new livestream. A deep breath exits my lungs as I squirt dollops of seafoam green and cobalt blue onto my palette.
My eyes find the canvas again, and the weight of my argument with Noah finally lifts off my shoulders. Right now, this is all that matters.
Silence. Art. And my heart.
Putting everything I have onto the canvas before me.
Everyone else might be blind to the real me, but I’m not.
I’ll show you.
Just watch.
Please.
Someone watch.
