what happens after sunset | ✓

twelve

⋆ f o r g o t t e n   s k e t c h e s  &  m a k e - u p f i g h t s ⋆

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about the art(^)
She's the angel to his darkness.

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    THE NEXT FEW PERIODS in chemistry pass slowly and torturously. I watch Jordan's interactions with other students as he puts on a facade of his usual carefree happiness, as if nothing happened a few days before. It makes me wonder how much he's had to pretend to get so convincing.

We manage to work around each other, our fragile standing reduced to a couple of grunted words. It's tiring spending my days hoping for a change, wishing that he would just tell me the truth. I understand that it is extremely hard to open up to others about harsh circumstances, but something small, anything about him would do. The only things I know about him are his name, his home, and that he has a charming way with words that enables them to pour over your skin like smooth silk, shifting your thoughts away from anything he doesn't want to talk about.

I'm too scared of being swept up by his allure once more and forgetting all about the important things.

He said he wanted to try. He said he wanted you.

So I patiently wait for a sign, something small, that maybe he feels the same inner turmoil that I do, the same pang of loneliness or sliver of regret that occurs whenever I see his face.

But nothing ever changes. It's like this for the rest of the week, and I'm finally getting back into the way things were before he came. I'm a smudge in the background once more. I'm just another name again. I'm a forgotten, average person, nothing special. That never changed, though.

I find myself fumbling for my sketchbook one evening at home, wanting to express my vivid emotions, because I've always felt everything so strongly. I flip through it, searching for a fresh page, when something catches my eye. It's the drawing from all those nights ago, and while it was only three weeks, it feels like it's been three years instead.

I had drawn a rough sketch of him. His piercing eyes are open, his hair messily rumpled as it had been when I drew it, and he's staring at me intently. Every contour and plane of his face is mesmerizing, as if he had manifested inside the drawing and was imploring me to come find him.

I blow out a slow breath, wondering why everything I do manages to somehow relate back to him. This is the first time I've ever been in a situation remotely like this. As I stare at the sketch of him, a plethora of feelings emerge in me, some that I can't even name. Even my subconscious revolves around him, this drawing is clear proof. I lean back against the pillows, sketchbook propped open on my knees, and I flip to a new page, pencil poised.

    This time I really draw on my memories of him, letting every image I can possibly conjure of him rise up and form in my sketches. I am concentrated on capturing a certain look of his, a look that contains his entire essence. Instead of drawing blindly on a page, I am attuned to every detail, every line, and every shadow of his face. Every bold pencil stroke serves the purpose of spilling out all of the emotions I've held inside me for the past week. I pour every frustration at not understanding him out, every fluttering sensation at his touch, and every god damn new emotion he's ever made me feel onto the page.

    And when I'm finished, it's so full of his spirit that it feels as though he's right there in front of me, giving me the same heated stare I sketched.

    ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

    Something is off this Friday, I can feel it as I walk the halls to my locker. The air buzzes with a different energy, as if reeling from a scandal. I quickly pace to my locker, trying my best to tune out the whispers that linger in the air. But when I hear Jordan's name, I can't help but lean closer.

    "..Jordan...fight.."

    "... Jace....principal..."

    "...could be suspended..."

    That's all I need to hear for me to slam my locker door shut and hurry down the hall to the principal's office. Sure enough, a battered Jordan sits outside, head leaned against the wall, sporting another black eye.

    "Really, Jordan?", I ask, and he startles. His knuckles are scratched up and bloodied again, and few cuts on his face still bleed, but other than that and his eye, he's relatively unharmed. His eyes look me over, a glint of something dark in them. He shrugs and leans back against the wall.

    The principal steps out of the office and calls Jordan's name. After he disappears inside, I find myself taking a seat on one of the chairs, waiting for him. The seconds stretch into what feels like hours before Jordan exits the office. His eyes widen slightly as he takes me in.

    "You're still here? Class already started," he says, and I shrug.

    "Follow me," I beckon him and start walking to the nurse, hearing his heavy footsteps trailing behind me. Since I often volunteer to help out the nurse, she lets me take Jordan into a room and treat him alone. I pull out a first aid kit and some bandages, feeling his stare on my back as I move around. I finally walk up to him, carrying all the supplies, placing them next to him on the bench.

    "This isn't like you, Jordan," I say, dabbing a cotton ball with some alcohol on it around his cuts, surprised when he doesn't even wince at the pain.

    "No, Andy, this is exactly how I am," he starts, his deep voice edging out the silence, "I'm just different around you. This is the real me, and exactly what I was afraid of showing you the other day. I'm angry, I'm violent, and I have a bad temper."

    He's right, none of the words he describes himself with sound remotely like the Jordan I know.

    "What happened?", I ask, ignoring his words, as I continue to work.

    "Nothing," he scowls, and we're back to square one.

    "So you just beat up a guy for nothing," I quip sarcastically, knowing it will make him upset.

    "Damnit Andy, you should've heard some of the fucked up shit he was saying about you—," he cuts himself off after he realizes he's said too much. Surprise jolts through me at the fact that he was beating someone up over me. Then warmth fills my belly at the fact that he was protecting me.

    "Who?"

    "You know damn well who, Andy, and I'm not gonna sit there and tolerate some asshole talking about you like you're a piece of—"

    My lips are on his before he can even finish.

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hehe whoops;) also, the final sketch will be in an upcoming chapter, don't you worry!