Page 112 of Spearcrest Prince

I can’t blame them for changing. I’ve changed too. The things I thought I wanted never made me happy. Partying, drinking, casual sex… it was fun, but it was never anything more than that.

As for love, I’m not so sure it’s a poison anymore.

I’m not even sure I was ever in love before now.

Because this feeling is different from anything I’ve ever felt before.

I sit completely still in a pool of sunshine, and Anaïs sits across from me. We’re both on the floor, like weirdos. Anaïs is wearing baggy white overalls almost completely smeared with paint. Her feet and arms are bare, the sunlight caressing her skin.

My books on my lap, I alternate between revising for my upcoming exams and sneaking glances at her. I try to angle myself a little away so I won’t be distracted, but she tuts loudly.

“Don’t move,” she snaps.

“I didn’t!” I protest.

She narrows her eyes at me. “You were looking shifty.”

“Shifty as in suspicious or shifty as in about to shift?”

“You’re an idiot.” She laughs. “Your sense of humour is actually getting worse with time.”

“At least I have one.” I shake my head slightly. “Not my fault you can’t take a joke.”

“The only joke here is how bad you are at staying still,” she mutters, leaning so close to her canvas that her face disappears behind it.

“You know what’s perfect for that?” I ask her. “A photograph.”

“A photograph wouldn’t capture what I’m trying to capture,” she replies. “We’ve gone over this before.”

“What are you trying to capture?” I move my shoulder with a wince. “Cramps and discomfort?”

“What a spoilt, pampered little prince you are,” she says, peeking at me over the top of her canvas.

“Sure.” It’s my turn to mutter. “You keep pretending you’re not just trying to punish me.”

“You deserve to be punished.”

“Punish me another way.”

She laughs. “You wish.”

“I do.”

We’resittinginthegallery one night. I’m working through some practice exam questions on my phone while Anaïs paints. Now and again, I sneak discrete pictures of her, her little thoughtful expressions and pouts of concentration. Then Anaïs suddenly speaks.

“You should have texted me while you were excluded.”

I look up, taken by surprise. “Why?”

“Because you were going to say something before you had your meeting, but you never did.”

“I wanted to text you,” I admit.

“Why didn’t you?”

She’s not looking at me. Instead, she’s mixing colours on her palette, her eyes focused on the tip of her painting knife.

“Because,” I answer truthfully, “I was afraid, and I was nervous. I wasn’t sure what to say. And I wasn’t sure you wanted me to text you.”

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