How to Paint Our Skies

How to Not Be Obsidian

Dear Fin,

    I found your mix tapes today. You used to give me mix tapes all the time, back when we’re in high school. Do you remember them? I have dozens upon dozens, all with their own separate themes: autumn, children’s laughter, timelessness, etc. These themes revolved around our lives, around the little things we found beautiful.

    There was one, though, one mix tape where . . . just wow. It was the first one you made where you featured one of your own songs; I remember crying when I first heard it. You so rarely let me hear you sing, and when you did I was so awed by your musicality. I still do, in fact. There’s nothing quite as beautiful as your voice.

    The tape was called Darkness upon Darkness. It was a rather sad mixture, composed of tragic songs questioning life and sorrow and death. The songs stirred my soul and I just remember, I remember, the way I realized how broken you were.  And I vowed I would put you back together, just as you had been trying so hard to with me.

    Encounter Number Thirty-Five:

    You came into my room wearing an enigmatic smile, much like Etta’s, and holding a box adorned with doves. You stood sheepishly in my doorway, watching me with those vivacious green eyes. I couldn’t help but smile.

    I had been stuck in my room for days after the incident at the Christmas Party. A doctor had come in and sewed my wrists shut, followed by Dr. Howard who had questioned my sanity. And all in between, you came and held my hand and promised everything was going to be alright; I almost believed you.

    My father had demanded that I rest, so I listened because he so rarely made requests from me. Bea and Claude (once sobered) gave me company and part of me wondered why Bea hadn’t left yet. Hadn’t she said she just wanted a ride from Claude to visit her own family for Christmas? Regardless, they seemed to enjoy each other’s company.

    It was the times that you came to visit me where I was at my happiest, though. Because you made me feel strong, rather than pitiful.

    “Hey,” I murmured.

    “Hey,” you murmured.

    We’re silent.

    “How are you feeling?” You asked.

    “I’m fine,” I insisted.

    “That’s wasn’t my question; I wanted to know exactly how you’re feeling,” you responded, stepping into the room.

    “Then, to your question, I insist that I’m fine,” I replied.

    You grinned. “You’re too cute.”

    I blushed. “You’re too sweet.”

    “I wish I was as sweet as you,” you said.

    I continued to blush and fell silent.

    “I brought you something,” you told me.

    I smiled.

    “I know it’s somewhat arrogant of me to keep these to you, but . . .” you said, biting your lip, as if unsure of your words. I found it cute that you could still be nervous around me.

    “Come here,” I commanded.

    You obeyed.

    I grabbed your shoulders and pulled you closer to me. For me, someone who barely had any confidence, the action felt so bold. But the expression on your face, so dreamlike, pushed me forward. We weren’t quite kissing, but I could feel the bare whisper of your lips against mine; it was like we’re exchanging breath. And somehow, that felt more intimate than kissing.