Page 178 of Under the Lies

It looks the same, with some of my boxes still stacked along the far wall.

The door clicks shut behind me as I move farther into the room, running my hand along the wall as I do. I walk to the bookshelf that held the flowers, which still sit there.

No longer are they the fresh and intimidating flowers but dried out and brittle and decaying.

No longer does the sight of them make my blood race.

I was afraid to come back to my apartment because my safety was stripped away. That my skin would crawl and I’d constantly be looking over my shoulder for a threat that may or may not have come.

I didn’t come back because I wanted to see where Noah lived. To get closer into his life, his world.

This apartment doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

And if I’m being totally honest, it didn’t feel like mine when I moved in. Maybe that’s why I dragged my feet with unpacking the boxes.

Actually, I can’t even remember what I had left.

Might as well get it done now. I’ll be back here sooner or later, whenever Noah gets done picking up the pieces my sister’s trail left behind. I could go back to Noah’s apartment and collect my belongings today. No need to wait for Noah to kick me out.

I could leave today with my pride still intact.

But when it comes to the heart, pride means nothing.

And my heart beats in tune for a man that only wanted me for a pawn. Sure, there have been times where he’s said things that have made me question my role in this game he invited me to play. Where he’s acted like there’s something more between us than the box he originally placed me in.

Which is why I’m not going to go back to Noah’s and pack up my things. I want to hold on to whatever part of him that I can for however long I can.

I’ll accept whatever hurt comes along.

Because I’m a fool for listening to my heart.

But it’s the same heart that finds the paint and canvases in the boxes and doesn’t run away in a panic. Who doesn’t freeze when picking up a paintbrush.

I decide not to unpack the boxes, after all. Instead I try something I haven’t done in a long time.

Running into the kitchen, I grab one of the plates and dash back into the living room where I pull out the easel, stretching it out in front of the window overlooking the busy street and the light shines just right, and place a clean canvas on it. I drop a little paint of every color I can onto the plate.

It feels so natural to dip one of the brushes into the paint and touch it to the canvas. To brush a single stroke of purple.

An overwhelming feeling comes over me. The feeling of comfort and purpose and belonging.

Tears prick my eyes as I continue to paint. A sense of grounding roots deep inside me. Stroke after stroke, color after color. It’s been so long, but it feels like I’m coming home. Before I even realize, I’ve painted the entire canvas.

Nothing concrete, just an abstract of cool and warm colors.

A little taste at what I’ve missed.

A taste I want more of.

Grabbing another canvas and refilling my paints, I start another. This time with a more definitive vision in mind.

No longer am I able to hold back the tears.

This.

This feels right.

Like I’m fully whole again.

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