Memories of an artist | My Writings |EN|

   It had been at least a year since he last drew her as he remembered her, even though he remembered her almost once a day, because he saw her on many things. He started outlining her dark eyes, and her lips smirking as she used to do. He loved it when she smirked like that. 

   He missed her. 

   He enjoyed drawing her beautiful hair, filling it with black, and leaving small spaces in white resembling the light reflected on her locks.

   They were total opposites, and if you asked, he wouldn’t deny it. However, immediately afterwards, he’d say they complemented each other, and that nothing in life would really be exciting if everyone were equal. He loved the way she made him lose all his senses, and how she’d always show him the best way of existing was to follow his gut and not give a damn about anything else. 

   She was very spontaneous, and that was probably one of the qualities he loved the most about her. When they were together, she always kept telling him to live for the moment. She was naughty, always looking for fun or looking for trouble, she talked back, and she didn’t ever meet his family because she thought they were lame and that they wouldn’t get along. She was probably right about that, though. 

   He kept drawing, taking his time to resemble her cheeks and dimples as correctly as he could. 

   They met when he was fourteen; she was thirteen and one grade behind. However, she had walked twice the miles he had. She’d been through a lot of things a girl her age shouldn’t have; she ran away from home to live with her uncle, who, despite his anger management problem and excessive drinking, took care of her far better than her abusive parents ever did, and signed her in school. 

   He remembered the first time they saw each other. He had been chasing around a rare blue butterfly, wanting to draw it. She had noticed, so when the butterfly flew by her, and placed itself on her hand, she smacked it and brought it to him. He recalled her telling him that way it’d be easier to draw it because it was still. 

   The boy didn’t know much about human relations, but he was pretty sure offering someone a dead butterfly as a gift was quite a rough way to start a friendship. He also recalled himself yelling at her for killing one of the most beautiful creatures to ever exist in nature, to which she replied by shoving the dead insect inside his mouth, and leaving. 

   Yes, that girl sure was one of a kind, and she was his first love. Among many, they had exchanged a lot of amazing, memorable first times, throughout their years of friendship, as they slowly fell in love. He didn’t regret a thing. 

   He thought of the times he’d help his girl study for her final tests in the library for hours because they kept getting distracted, or when she’d secretly come to his place at midnight and they’d clamber to the roof of the house to watch the stars and then the sunrise, and the times he would sneak out late at night and she came to pick him up to be together in the back seat of her uncle’s car. 

   She’d been his first kiss, his first poem, and the first good reason to not let him shut an eye in the middle of the night. She had been the first one to ever care for him so bad to never give up on trying reaching him, even when he tried to push her away. He, as well, had been her first date to a romantic restaurant, her first homecoming dance, her first night watching the stars, and her first actual weakness. She called him her unicorn.  

   She was the first person to break his heart, too. 

   She was the only one who made him cry himself to sleep, the first person to ever make him feel boundless sorrow and emptiness all around and his first doubt ever about God’s goodness, or existence.  

   She was the first friend he buried. 

   He just didn’t understand how heaven could give him something as precious as her, and then take it away from him, without even giving him a chance to say goodbye. He was never able to kiss her again, or hug her, or run his fingers through her hair ever again, and he hated having to deal with it. He hated the fact that the only person in her funeral aside from her uncle was him. No one else cared. 

   He hated that nobody ever got the chance to get to know her as good as he did. He hated having to carry on with his life without the one and only person who made him feel worthy. 

   He felt his eyes slightly water, and his chest hurt a little, but it was nothing odd anymore, just something that happened every time he thought about her.  He finished up his drawing, swallowed hard, and straightened his back, putting himself together as he took a deep breath. 

   He was used to it, and even though he hated the sensation, he’d never hate the sentiment.

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Note: This is an original story, written by me. Do not copy or distribute without my permission.

Source of image: https://kociepierogi.deviantart.com/art/Meg-Masters-526476994