Not Today | ✔️

Chapter Twenty Four.

"If you want it, you can have it
Every color that you see, see, see...
If you want it, want it bad
Then build yourself a technicolor masterpiece..."
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"Photography is better."

"Absolutely not. Painting is."

"Whatever you say, babe."

"Don't 'whatever you say' me," Evelyn said, narrowing her eyes.

"Too late. I already did," Tristan replied, sticking his tongue out childishly.

"Real mature, Tris," Evelyn said, rolling her eyes.

"I learned from the best," Tristan said with a wink, causing Evelyn to shake her head, a begrudging smile on her face.

"Good. Then you can learn that painting is better from the best, too," she said.

"Why do you think painting is better, anyway?" Tristan asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

"With photography, there aren't real imperfections, no jagged lines or inaccuracies. It captures moments perfectly. With painting, it's imperfect. It adds so much character to the piece of art, you know? Painting is... it. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but a painting is worth a thousand pictures." Evelyn explained.

"That may be true, but photography is far from perfect. People move, pictures end up blurry, and every imperfection, along with every perfection, is highlighted. And more than capturing pictures, photography captures feelings," Tristan explained his point.

"So does painting, Tris. That's why people do it. It isn't just about creating something that's pretty to look at. It's about expression. It's about the artist trying to recreate feelings, so that anyone who looks at it feels something, even if it's different from what the next person feels."

Tristan narrowed his eyes. "Are you a painter, Evelyn?"

Evelyn was taken aback, truly surprised by his level of perceptiveness.

"I never said that," she said.

"You never say a lot of things, Evelyn," Tristan said, causing Evelyn to frown, but he continued talking before she could say something. "I know what it's like to have a passion. I know what it's like when you wake up in the middle of the night with an idea, and can't sleep until you've put it down. I know what it's like feeling like everything around you is blurry, but then you do whatever it is you're passionate about and suddenly, everything becomes clear, like a camera snapping into focus."

"You're very good with words," Evelyn said, gazing at him with a certain, unnamed fondness.

Tristan let out a quiet scoff, his next words sounding more bitter to her ear than a lemon tasted to the tip of her tongue.

"You have no idea how far from true that is."

Evelyn frowned. "It is true, or I wouldn't have said it. And... you're right, actually. I am, or, well, was a painter."

"Was?"

Evelyn shrugged. "It's a long story."

"I've got time, Evelyn," he said, his dark gaze latched into hers. "And you should know by now that, even if I didn't, I'd make time."

Evelyn couldn't help the shy smile that slowly spread on her face anymore than she could stop the feeling in her stomach that no one could cause but Tristan.

Evelyn opened her mouth to let the words out, but she couldn't seem to.

The trouble was, if she explained this, she'd have to explain how this was an effect and something else was the cause, and then she'd have to explain the cause, but she wasn't sure she was ready for that. As much as she wished she was, as much as she would've been if it was a perfect world, she wasn't, and she wasn't sure she'd ever be.