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I will always love you.
You were my first.
You were my only love.
Mason
My chest exhalesa breath I didn’t even know I was holding as the words start to blur right in front of me. I blink back tears and drop the letter to my lap, closing my eyes as pain burrows deep into my chest.
He’s given up.
He has let me go, so we can move on.
This is what I wanted, right? There is no chance for us to be together, so of course, this is the next logical step.
Then why do I want to run to him right now and tell him not to give up? Why do I want to say; to hell with everything that’s happened and run into his arms?
I place the letter down on the bed and pick up the sketchpad placing it on my lap. It’s almost identical to the one I’ve seen him draw in before, except this one appears to be old and more worn. The yellow cover is slightly faded, and the edges frayed from being handled over a long period of time.
Smoothing my hand over it, I take in concentrated breaths. I already know what’s inside. I’ve always wondered if he ever drew me, but I never found any indication that he had. He loved to tease me about it, especially when he caught me snooping a few times.
I shouldn’t look, but I can’t stop myself. I have to see. Blowing out a breath, I open to the first page.
It’s my first day of middle school. I know this because I’m wearing my NSYNC T-shirt, and my hair is in Dutch braids. I remember arguing with my mother that morning over my outfit choice, but I was such a huge fan of Justin Timberlake that I refused to change. The drawing is different from what I’ve seen Mason draw recently. It’s slightly rougher and lacking in some of the detail and shading of his current work.
As I flick through the pages, it’s as if I’m taking a trip down memory lane through my first year of middle school. There are drawings of me talking to my friends, sitting bored in class, and eating lunch in the school cafeteria. But one, in particular, catches my attention, and I pause to study it for a moment. This one is different. My hair is in a messy ponytail, and my eyes are downcast as if I am deep in thought. There is a slight furrow to my brow, and by the way my lips are curled down, there is no mistaking that I’m sad, and my throat grows thick as the memories come flooding back. This was the day I returned to school after Blake passed away. I remember wearing that denim jacket with the badges on it.
Swallowing through the thickness in my throat, I push forward, turning the pages again, and continue my journey through this picture book that represents my life.
Over the years, there have been countless drawings of me sitting in class, standing by my locker, at a football game wearing my cheerleading uniform with my legs up in the air in a flying split. I never recall ever seeing Mason at a game, but then again, I never paid a lot of attention to him at school either.
As the years of my story continue with the turning of each page, I notice that each drawing seems to become more detailed. The lines are more defined with added shading, giving each one a more realistic look.
I frown when I land on the picture of two hands. It’s the first I have seen that does not have my face. It’s just my hand grasping onto a pencil with another hand holding the other end.
Mason.
My finger is touching his, and my skin automatically starts to buzz with the memory of our flesh making contact for the very first time. My heart thrums in my chest as I slowly turn the page, landing on a sketch of myself looking back at me.
It’s sketched in black with hues of gray like all the others, except for my eyes. The irises have a subtle blue blended in with the shading of the gray. It’s the only picture that has any form of color, and my breath hitches when I also realize it’s the only picture that I’m actually looking back at him.
It was that day in English. The day when Mason and I began. I almost don’t want to continue. I already know the rest of the story is us. How he saw me during our time together.
I guess I’m a glutton for punishment because I can’t seem to stop myself from turning the page again.
And again.
There is one where I’m sitting at Mason’s desk. My head was thrown back in laughter, and I have no doubt it’s from that day Nix decided to come in and terrorize us. I smile fondly at the memory. I’m going to miss his antics. As I continue to analyze each picture of every moment we shared I notice the only color present is the blue in my eyes.
Heat rises to my cheeks when I land on a drawing of myself as I lay in bed, my hair sprawled out on the pillow, my hooded eyes looking back at him with unmistakable desire. I’m naked from the waist up, my breasts on full display. My nipples are carefully shaded with meticulous care, and my sparrow tattoo is drawn with such precision that I wonder if he waited until I was asleep to draw it.
How he has managed to capture every line and detail by memory alone seems hard to fathom.
I turn the page and land on a drawing of a single flower, identical to the ones he placed in my locker every day. There is nothing else but this flower with something written in cursive below it.
There once wasa girl who captivated me.
Opened my heart with one turn of her key.
