Not Today | ✔️

Chapter Nine.

"It's so dark tonight, but you'll survive, certainly...
It's alright, come inside, and talk to me..."

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Longing.

That was the word that seemed to describe Evelyn at the moment in time she was in. It was nearly midnight, both her parents and the rest of the world seeming to be asleep. Her caramel hair resembled a chocolate color, as it was still wet from her shower and Evelyn was clad in light blue with a white cardigan. It was a normal night, a standard procedure, but she'd opened up the wooden chest where all her painting supplies were held and she felt such longing that it threatened to suffocate her from the inside out, her chest feeling devoid of anything, especially lungs.

Painting used to be what she loved, but in one single moment, it wiped away her ability to want to try again, and she hadn't... for three years. There just wasn't enough order to the act of painting. No line would ever be straight enough, no paintbrush bristles were uniform enough, and paint would always stain her hands and clothes.

At least, that's what she always told herself.

She told herself that was the reason for her to stop painting. She told herself the mess of it all was too much to handle, rather than the tightness in her chest and the increase in her breathing every time she contemplated it. She told herself that, because it was easier than admitting she was afraid. She was afraid that if she painted now, she'd ruin the one part of herself that was still preserved, untainted by the person life forced her to change into.

She blamed it on something easy to avoid confronting something hard.

Evelyn let out a small sigh and closed her eyes. She could still remember the way painting felt to her, when she'd do it. And recalling the feeling was both the sweetest pleasure and the sharpest pain.

Passion.

That was what always seemed to replace the blood coursing through Evelyn's veins when she painted; passion. It rushed through her veins so that every inch of her being felt it. Instead of her heart pumping blood through her body, keeping her alive, passion did. Passion was her blood, her oxygen, her existence. It was both what kept her warm and what threatened to burn her from the inside out, catching on creative inspiration like kindling until she became nothing more than the vessel transferring her ideas from her mind to paper. Until the day it burned her so thoroughly she became nothing but ash.

Painting was a pastime no one seemed to enjoy anymore. People were too disconnected, too disinterested, but painting... painting was her passion. It, to her, felt comparable to floating in a swimming pool on a summer day, the sun kissing her skin. She would feel warm, calm, and detached from the world as soft waves washed over her, falling against her skin in gentle, rhythmic caresses. She may not have been submerged in a pool on a summer day when she painted, but that's how it felt. Submerged in passion; persistent yet gentle passion. Beyond passion, she always felt peaceful.

Evelyn was so deep in her reminiscing that she jumped when her phone rang, not expecting to be pulled out of her relaxing reverie so abruptly.

She stood up, walking to the table by her bed and picking up the phone, frowning slightly as she read a number she didn't recognize. She answered, anyway.

"Hello?" she answered quietly.

"Evelyn?" a voice she'd recently become very familiar with said.

"Tristan?" she replied, her voice getting slightly louder as she registered who was on the other end.

"Yeah," he said. His voice was reminiscent of sandpaper, rough and sounding dry. It sounded so tired, she could practically feel his exhaustion through the phone.