❝ CLEANING THE HOUSE IS NOT 'MALEWIFE BEHAVIOUR', IT'S CALLED BEING A RESPONSIBLE ADULT. ❞
━━━ al-haitham's friends scribble his phone number in one of the stalls of the girls' washroom, and he ends up getting a message at 3 am.
[ al-haith...
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"Take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die,"
A quaint cherry-pink radio on the shelf had been humming the lyrics of a torrent of songs, filling the otherwise empty air of the dorm room with soothing melodies. It was Nilou's most prized possession, and by default, Y/N's as well. Whenever either of the two noticed specks of dust clogging its speaker, they cleaned it with care and turned it on so as to not let it grow rusty, basking in the music it echoed.
Today, the person was Y/N— because Nilou had gone to the library to study for a test, leaving the girl to her own devices.
"I don't belong, and my beloved neither do you,"
On the windowsill, several small, stunted sunflowers savoured the mellow warmth that streamed in through the glass. Y/N had tried everything to help them grow, but it was quite a hard feat to achieve when they were kept indoors. Their shadow was cast against her cheek, the outlines of their leaves blurred and rounded.
"Those Windermere peaks look like a perfect place to cry,"
In a languid, calculated stroke, the brush in Y/N's hold left behind a trail of mauve petals on the canvas. The easel it was mounted on was taking up most of the space inside, but she was too focused on her movements to worry about her comfort. Once she was done, she released a sigh of relief and stepped back a little, inspecting the product and deliberately seeking the mistakes she could fix.
In front of her was the art piece she had spent all of her energy on. However, it still didn't look anywhere near complete.
"It's... okay, I guess." She mumbled under her breath, her gaze plastered to the summery colours she had chosen to use. They were too much for her liking.
With distaste, her glare settled upon her palette, as if that would somehow alleviate her repulsion.
Her merciless scrutiny came to a halt when she looked at her art. Really looked at it. "At least the grandeur element is there." What she was evidently the most satisfied with was the nucleus of her work. The main character. "You look cool, Apollo. I did you justice."
Y/N had painted the God of Arts himself.
Apollo's orange robe was draped over his beige skin like the flames of a fire engulfing him wholly, his luminescent waves of golden falling on his face, no less than an actual bejewelled crown. He was resting along a riverbank, the vines of pale violet wisteria wrapping around his hands and his feet, rendering him motionless. The soft blue of his irises was glued to his lyre that had fallen out of his grasp due to the plant's control over his body.
