ℂ𝕒𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℕ𝕖𝕠𝕟 𝔾𝕝𝕠𝕨 ➃

45. Parameters - ✭ Boston ✭

In front of me sits a canvas, one that's left a sense of dissatisfaction in me, just like they always do. The room around the sleeping woman on the bed was fine but the paint didn't do her justice. No, there's no media that would be able to capture her beauty the way I remember it, the way it's embedded in my brain.

I cross my arms frustratedly as I look around the room at all the other sketches, paintings, and all different sorts of media, that tried to portray Monica's likeness. I'd once thought I was a talented artist but I'm not so sure about that anymore. None of these are even remotely good enough.

My sketches of anything other than Monica are all lacking these days. I mean, yeah, I suppose they're good. My customers are still satisfied but there is something that doesn't quite resonate with me in the passion department when it comes to creating. Art is my way of letting out emotions, a way to express myself nonverbally, and it's clear what all of my emotions revolve around now.

I put out my cigarette in the ashtray that sits next to my current work of art. I wipe my hands on my pants, not caring that I've just smothered them in paint. My phone pings and even though I know it won't be her, there's a small part of me hoping that it is. When I see my father's name flash up on the screen I roll my eyes.

I unlock my phone but ignore his text message, clicking over to social media instead, specifically Monica's. She hasn't really posted much over the last month, just a few selfies here and there at certain tourist spots. She is as beautiful as ever, her eyes looking full of life these days, much like they had when we first met.

I hadn't been expecting to find anything new, or of much consequence really, but I am surprised to see a new post. I click on the picture to get a closer look. She's standing in front of some restaurant with a giant smile on her face, holding her arms out with another male, one that probably has ten years on her.

Something like this usually wouldn't bother me, because he's clearly not a student, but I don't particularly like her closeness to the tall, fit gentleman. My brow furrows as I try to pinpoint why their closeness leaves an uneasiness in me. I look him over once more and then scroll down to read the comments.

Lucky, you're abroad with the hottest professor of all time.

Omg, girl, no wonder you wanted to go to school in Virginia.

If it isn't the infamous Professor McFuckMe.

That last particular comment was from Marcella. My jaw ticks thinking about how she probably encouraged her to go on this trip. She'd probably been referring to him as much the whole time too which lead me to another thought— did Monica want to go because she thought her professor was hot?

No, that doesn't sound like Monica. She's not like that. But what if she's like that now? You did awaken an entire other side of her, a sexual side. Shut up inner-self.

I hate how much my own mind fucks with me.

I scroll through more of the same type of comments, all talking about the attractive professor, apparently this is a well-known thing at their school. I'm not jealous of the man's looks but the comments, along with the previous thoughts still in my head, make my stomach roll. When I see the very first comment made I want to chuck my fucking phone across the room.

CarterKennedy: Wow, babe, you look like you're having a great time! Looking beautiful as ever, can't wait to hear from you. xx

I close my eyes and count to ten, thinking that I will somehow manage to calm down but that doesn't really work. No, it doesn't work in the least. I launch my phone across the room, shattering the screen. A slew of expletives leaves my mouth as I pick it up and assess the damage. Yeah, I'd royally fucked it.