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Every stroke of her brush seems to carry with it a piece of her soul, its song mixing with the paint and leaving behind fragments of itself. Showing me a side of her that I can only ever wish to see.
The care and precision in which she has painted me threatens to break me where no one has broken me before.
As I continue to stare at the painting, I silently pray that it does.
I adore this.
I adoreher.
My heart aches at the very thought, as if it were near to bursting. Slowly, I shift my gaze to the girl.
She stands to one side, watching me with those great blue eyes of hers. They search my face, as though they can see through my mask. Through my entire being, and judging by her painting, in a way she has.
It is an uncomfortable thought, but not an entirely unwelcome one.
She beams up at me, her smile full of goodness, warmth, and sunshine. Full of everything that I am not. Everything that I never believed I could be part of, let alone enjoy.
Yet, seeing these things in her makes me want to lean into them, to welcome them into my life, and never let them go.
My eyes shift back to the painting as the silence continues to stretch between us, growing weightier with untold feeling as I struggle to form the words to tell her what this means to me. To praise her and the skill of, not just her hands, but her heart and soul.
But no words that come to mind seem to do her or the painting justice.
I despise that with each heartbeat that passes, I can feel fear wrapping around her as her eyes begin to flicker between the painting and me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her expression waver.
My eyes meet hers just as fear takes hold, rising to meet me within the depths of her eyes, and I realize I have once again unintentionally wounded her.
My heart thuds sickeningly in my chest.
I do not know what to say to her, or how to express what her painting has done to me. So, instead, I turn on my heel and storm out of the room without a word.
Silence and space the only companions I know to keep my heart in check. The only way I know to escape the impossibility of this girl, of these emotions this mortal has forced upon me.
Each step further from the painting, from the girl, has my heart quickening and my mind racing.
This is not supposed to happen.
Not to me, and certainly not with a mortal.
I have always known the Fates to be cruel, but this … this is a whole new degree of torture.
And yet, part of me wonders if they even know she is here when even I did not see her coming, or perhaps they sent her.
No matter how hard I try to reason with myself, try to explain away the girl and these feelings.
I cannot.
It does not matter that she is a mortal, who I myself have only promised death, my heart will no longer listen to reason.
It can no longer refuse to beat in rhythm with hers.
20
Hazel
Ifight back tears as I stare at the empty space where Death stood just moments ago.
My heart sinks as I try to understand what I’ve done wrong. Was he offended by my attempt at capturing his likeness?
