𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 || 𝐃.𝐌

Chapter 51

TW: This Chapter may contain mature content. To those who are uncomfortable, you are free to skip it. Thank you!

This may be a bit long...

——*☁︎︎☾☁︎︎*——

-Y/n's POV-

Ignoring him is the best thing I could do. Painting is also the best way to distract me from thinking of him because reading doesn't help. It'll only remind me of that evening and I don't even know how many days has it been since that night.

I had let him touch me for suck's sake! FUCK!

Without even realizing it, I have hit the cup of water with the brush that I threw when I was trying to remove that thought from my mind.

"Y/n, you scared Aerin." She ran to me and picked up the cup whilst I wiped the water with a cloth that used to wipe my brushes. "No, Aerin will do that for you." She exclaimed, snapping her fingers as a cloth floated to her. "What has gotten into you?"

"Nothing...umm...well...my thoughts were just playing with me. That's all," I sighed.

"Is the thought of Y/n about her husband?" She uttered, causing me to stop picking up the brush that had fallen with the cup.

"Uhh...no," I spoke, finally picking up the brush and sitting back to my stool as I gazed back at the canvas, with an unfinished painting, that was on the easel in front of me.

"Very well then," she smiled.

"By the way, Aerin, what day was today? I don't have any calendar here to look at." I asked.

"Oh, it's July of 23rd, Miss. Your birthday is in just 3 days from now."

July 26th. How could I even forget my own Birthday?

"Aerin will be going out now, Ma'am."

I smiled and nodded before she left.

My attention went back to the unfinished painting in front of me, taking the brush from the table that was loaded with tubes of paint, a pallet covered with different varieties of paints, cloth and the glass of water that was now in the colour of grey.

My apron has strokes of different varieties of colours. My hand was covered with splatters of paint. Some are blue, some are purple, some are white. It is like the colours of heaven when you thought of it.

The bristles of the brush, stroke gently on the uncoloured part of the canvas. The sunlight, hitting the glass of water as its light went through it, creating dots of rainbow reflection on the floor like crystals, and the wind blew, coming through the window as the curtain swayed with it and also making half of my flowy skirt flow with the wind under the stool.

As the wind blew again, it was carrying the scents of flowers. The scent of the bouquet of flowers on the vase. Lavenders, Roses, and Hyacinth. Then, the wind blew a bit hard, making the rack of coats fall and the flowers' petals fall down gently on the ground.

I stood up from the stool, wiped my hands on my apron and went to the rack.

I closed the window and picked up the rack, making it stand again, then picked up the coats and placed them back on the rack, but one coat has caught my attention. His black coat.

His scent was no longer on it, but it feels like I could smell it. I remember how his scent lingered around me like I feel like I was in his arms.

Then again, I remembered that night in the library. The way he touched me, kiss me, give me love bites. It's giving me butterflies and the sensation that made me heat up and breathe deeply with shivers in it.