Destiny's Gamble

Confessions Of The Heart

Every inch of the ceiling is covered with hanging glass angels, each holding a heart in their hands. What makes every angel different from the rest is the word that's sprawled in black messily across the dress of each individual one. Smiling, I quickly read some of the words. 

'Love.'

'Hope.'

'The only one.' 

"I must admit, Angel, the idea of writing those words came from the Chinese lanterns you had set up." Manik says from behind me, his voice wavering with nervousness. "So don't you dare ridicule them. The rest, however, is all my original thinking. But please don't mock that either." 

"Manik, what're these words supposed to mean?" I ask, brushing my fingers gently against an angel. 

"They're words that remind me of you, or characteristics that are instilled in you. Without them you wouldn't be my Angel," he explains. "Look, it's fucking weird, I know. Just ignore them." I let out a laugh of disbelief. Weird? 

"Manik, you and I clearly have two very different definitions of weird," I say. "This entire setup translates as romantic, not weird." On the far wall of the aircraft, there are a few square structures, which are covered by a red velvet cloth. "What're those, Manik?" I ask, heading in their direction.

"Um...They seemed like a good idea yesterday, but I'm suddenly not too sure about you viewing those canvases." Manik says, his voice clouded with utter doubt. 

"Canvases?" I repeat, confused. "As in, painting canvases? Manik, I never knew you were into art." 

"Neither did I," he mumbles from behind me. Grabbing hold of the cloth, I tug it downwards. 

"Holy," I gasp, my eyes resting on a portrait of me. In this drawing, my hair is partially covering the left side of my face as I'm laughing with my head tossed back. Hastily, I yank the other cloth away from the canvas, only to find another portrait of me. This one is of me sleeping with my arm extended above my head. I put both my hands to work in tugging away the cloth of the remaining two canvases. As expected, they're also portraits of me.

"Manik, when'd you get these made? They're beautiful," I say. "I mean, not my face, but the artist's technique." Furrowing my brows, I search all four corners of a canvas for the artist's signature. "There's no signature present though."

"That's because I've done them," Manik admits. Disbelief clouding my head, I turn around to look at his expressions, just in case he is pulling my leg. However, instead of seeing mirth on Manik's face, all I can see is utmost seriousness. 

"You've really...Manik, you've actually done these?" I ask incredulously, jerking my thumb in the direction of a canvas. "H-How? I mean, you never told me you're an artist as well."

"That's because I didn't know either, until just recently. But I guess when one's got the right muse, the brush and canvas begin to speak a language of their own." My husband's gaze lands on a portrait, admiration shining in his eyes. 

"Manik, that look..." I trail off, smiling as I watch my husband tilt his head to the side, his fingers reaching out to intertwine with mine. 

"What?" He asks, eradicating the distance between our bodies by moving closer to me. 

"It's different," I comment, squeezing his fingers comfortingly. 

"You make me feel a perfect kind of different." Manik whispers, his eyes not once leaving the portrait he has painted of me. An entire zoo of butterflies has decided to take flight inside my stomach. To make sure that Manik has truly painted me, I take another look at the canvases.