Page 113 of The Painter and His Poet

“I’m so sorry, Sterling,” she replies, and for a brief moment Harlow turns her attention towards the window, the fading evening light casting a soft, golden glow on her skin.

“If I ask you something, will you be honest with me, Sterling?” she eventually asks.

“Yes,” I reply.

“I know Robert hurt your mother, and I’m not downplaying how much that’s impacted your relationship,” she says, her eyes studying me closely. “But there’s something more, isn’t there? Something you’re holding back. Will you tell me what it is?”

Even though I’ve mentally braced myself for this moment, my stomach tightens with anxiety. She’s told me she loves me, and I want to believe that means she’ll love and accept all of me—even the parts I’ve had a hard time accepting myself, but like Harlow I’ve suffered years of emotional and mental abuse at the hands of a parent, and it’s hard to let go of the fear that if I tell her about my synesthesia she’ll reject me just like my father has.

“There is something that I’ve kept from you,” I admit, dragging in a shaky breath. “Something about me that makes me different from everyone else. It’s hard for me to open up because in the past when I have, all I’ve been met with is ridicule, cruelty and disgust.”

“Your father?” she asks.

“Not just him. I had a rough time growing up. Part of the reason I choose to keep to myself and have few friends is becauseI’ve been treated cruelly by a lot of people. Let’s just say that my time at school was something I’d rather forget.”

“What is it that makes you different, Sterling?”

Just at that moment, there’s a knock on the door. “Let me answer that, and I’ll tell you everything, okay?”

“Sure,” she replies, and I feel the heat of her stare as I stride towards the door.

“I have your delivery, Sir. Where would you like them?” a member of the hotel staff asks me.

“I’ve got this, thanks,” I reply, taking the 3ft canvas and easel from him, resting them against the wall before grabbing the bag of oil paint and brushes that I paid over the odds for from a local art shop to get them delivered here on such short notice. He waits for me to tip him, so I pull out a couple of fifty pound notes from my wallet and hand them to him.

“Thank you, sir,” he says, taking them from me with an appreciative smile before I gently close the door.

“What’s this?” Harlow asks, as I tuck the canvas under my arm and grab the other items.

“This is who I am. This is the real me, Harlow,” I say, setting up the easel and placing the canvas on the shelf, securing it in place.

“You’re an artist?” she questions, her eyes widening as she looks from me to the oil paints and brushes that I set up on the table between us.

“I am…” My voice trails off as she frowns.

“I don’t understand why anyone, least of all your father, would treat you so badly for being an artist? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I have a condition called synesthesia,” I explain, my fingers coasting over the oil paints before I pick up a medium-sized paintbrush, the wood smooth in my grasp.

“Synesthesia? What is that?”

I pause for a moment, trying to find the right words. “It’s when the senses are...mixed up, I guess. For me, it means I can see colours when I hear music, or someone singing.”

Harlow looks at me, processing. “So, you see colours… from sound?”

“Not everyday sounds, specifically music and when I hear someone singing,” I explain, taking a seat opposite her. “When music plays, I can see this whole spectrum of colours. It’s not just random, though. Each note has its own colour, its own texture even. And it’s always there, constantly, whether I want it or not. Painting what I see helps me to deal with it.”

She shifts forward in her seat, her curiosity growing. “But that’s incredible… Why would your dad treat you so poorly because of it? Isn’t it a gift to be able to experience music that way?”

“Not to my dad it isn’t. When I was a kid, hearing music would send me into a tailspin of overstimulation.” I pause, setting the paintbrush back on the table as I recall those early years when everything seemed so frightening, and my dad had been especially cruel. “I’d be bombarded with this overwhelming flood of colours. It was like a sensory explosion, and it was too much to handle. There was no way for me to cope with it back then, no way to explain it because I didn’t understand what was happening to me…” My voice trails off as I look down at my hands for a moment, fidgeting nervously.

“Sterling, I’m so sorry. That must’ve been terrifying,” Harlow says, her brows pinching together with empathy.

“More times than I can count, I’d do things that made my dad embarrassed or ashamed of me. I’d flap my hands around, trying to disperse the colours, but when that didn’t work, I’d just collapse, curling up into a ball on the floor, covering my ears and hoping the world would stop spinning long enough for the sensation to pass.” My hands tighten into fists as I remember thehelplessness of those moments, and I drag in a steadying breath, forcing myself to continue. “Most of the time, I’d end up fainting from the overload, the colours just becoming too much for my body to process.”

Harlow gasps, her eyes flashing with recognition. “You fainted that night we met, was it because I was singing…” Her voice trails off when I nod.

“Yes.”

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