Endless (Reckless #2)

Endless - Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Adelaide - February

Why is it so hard to mend a broken heart?

I thought that time and independence would somehow make the aching pain go away. I believed that change would have been enough to be okay. But it’s already been too long, and the heart constriction is still there.

And I’m not okay - even though I wish I could be.

I try to not to dwell on what could’ve been, because it’s already too hard to think of what there really was. And what there really was… was nothing. At least, not what I had hoped for it to be.

But that was for the best. If our connection continued to grow, Lord knows what would have happen. I probably never would’ve left. He would’ve been stuck with me and my baggage.

Because I’m an anchor, and he would still be sinking along with me.

I bring a hand to rub my face. I need to stop thinking about him so much. It never feels better; if anything, it hurts twice as much.

After chopping off my hair - nearly a month ago - I thought I would feel a sudden empowerment. I thought that maybe I could conquer the world. Instead, I didn’t feel anything of that sort. I felt a bit terrible actually. But it was just hair - hair grows back.

And hopefully, if time permits, I’ll be able to grow again too.

Grow past that fleeting love.

Grow past this brokenness.

I just want to feel whole again.

***

I stare at the blank canvas - a charcoal pencil in my hand, my thoughts hesitant.

It was a strange feeling to hold a pencil again. Even though the will to draw something is there, I can’t seem to conjure creativity. The hobby that I once loved wasn’t a spurring passion anymore.

Nothing was a spurring passion anymore.

After another few moments of no inspiration, I finally lean over my bed and reach for the bedside drawer. Pulling the drawer open, I take out a frayed, oversized manila folder - my old portfolio. As I place it onto the bed, a rush of memories fill my system.

An image of high school settles into my head, and I recall memories of sitting in art class during junior year. It was the only place where I felt like I sort of belonged. Even there, I still felt like a freak. My art teacher, Mrs. Griswold, was a nice lady - a bit crazy, but what art teacher isn’t?

One day, she came over to my little corner in the room and inspected my pieces - the ones in my portfolio. Mrs. Griswold looked amazed and told me that my art was fantastic; it had been the first compliment I received in years.

After seeing what I was capable of, she encouraged me to apply for art school. Mrs. Griswold said the key to my future was the portfolio. Least to say, I chickened out. As much as I dreamed of art school, I wasn’t that good - not art school worthy.

Besides, I didn’t have that kind of money. And to avoid any questions from her, I didn’t take another art class the following year.

Even though I didn’t take art at school again, I did continue drawing at home. It was an escape, and I loved the thrill of a finished art piece. It fills you with such accomplishment.