Page 18 of My End
Not words. Just a hum.
A soft, off-key melody drifting through the cracks like smoke, and then silence.
I left the brushes where they were and headed back downstairs.
Boone would be home tomorrow.
Would Tilly come out then, or would she stay locked away?
Chapter Eight
Tilly
Eat. Sleep. Paint. Repeat.
That had been my life for the past five days.
Adam had kept me alive by swinging by with food I didn’t ask for but always devoured. I slept in bursts, crashed on the couch, or curled up in the oversized bean bag in the corner. My hair was a mess, my back ached, and my fingers were cramped from gripping brushes too long.
I’d also never felt more alive.
I stood now a few feet in front of the canvas with my hands on my hips as my eyes scanned every brushstroke like I was seeing it for the first time. The paint was still drying on parts of the upper right corner, where deep maroon swirled into bursts of orange. My gaze tracked down to the cheekbone, where a jagged edge of cobalt curved into shadow.
It was… Jake.
His face, yes. But not the literal version. This wasn’t realism. This was something more instinctive. Abstract in color and stroke, yet unmistakably him.
The jawline was bold, sharp with indigo shadows and warm gold bleeding into deep crimson.
The beard was stubbled into form with harsh lines of dark charcoal and a smear of ultramarine that anchored the entire lower half of the piece.
The mouth was set with lips pressed together, but there was something in the curve. Not angry. Not soft. Just… bracing.
But the eyes?
God, the eyes were alive.
A mixture of green, black, and just the faintest dusting of copper to give them depth. They watched you. They dared you to look back.
The whole piece shimmered with colors bright and explosive strokes of coral, turquoise, ochre, and magenta, but despite the vibrant palette, there was a darkness threaded through it. An edge I hadn’t planned on. A weight that snuck in beneath the color like a whisper of something broken.
It was unlike anything I’d ever painted before.
I’d painted portraits before. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. I was known for them. But this… this had been for me.
Just me.
A knock pulled me from the trance, and the door opened without waiting for a response.
“I come bearing granola and protein and things you haven’t eaten in four days,” Adam called, balancing a tray on one hand like a magician.
I laughed and wiped my hands on the legs of my pants. “I’ve only asked for coffee this whole time.”
“You ask. I ignore. That’s our relationship.” He moved toward the coffee table but stopped short when his eyes landed on the painting.
“Oh my god.” He froze in place, and his entire body leaned toward the canvas like he was seeing something sacred.
I chewed on my bottom lip and turned toward him slowly. “Um… well. What do you think?”
