We shared a drink three days ago, as we walked around the mall discussing how the food court had overpriced items, amongst other seemingly meaningless and random conversation topics. Her name was Amanda. Amanda Carlson.
“Remember when you went through that emo phase?” she asked, reaching into her purse. Her hair was brown, and even in the sunlight, her hair remained brown, but with each step she took, her hair bounced with her, as though it had a mind of its own. Four days ago, I thought I was in love with her.
“Yeah,” I replied, “That was pretty stupid.”
She pulled out a stick of gum and unwrapped it. “I thought it was pretty hot.”
Three days ago, I realised I wasn’t.
“Well, we started dating when I was still going through it.”
“I actually kind of miss the red highlights you had in your hair.” She stuffed the stick of gum into her mouth and began to chew. Our footsteps were perfectly in sync with each other as we walked, but we weren’t going anywhere in particular. At that moment in time, I hadn’t realised I wasn’t in love with her. At that moment in time, everything was normal and okay.
“Lowlights,” I corrected her.
“What?”
Appearance-wise, she was relatively plain. She didn’t have any features that stuck out, nor did she possess any personality traits that one could refer to as extraordinary. She obsessed over television shows, leeching her quirks and actions from the characters she idolised the most. She would pick up speech patterns from those that surrounded her—including me. When I went through my emo phase, she went through hers, ending it at around the same time I had.
“Lowlights. My hair is blond, and the red was darker, so they’re called lowlights, not highlights. Highlights means I have the hair lighter than the base shade.”
“It’s weird that you, of all people, know that.”
Despite her lacklustre personality and appearance, she intrigued me. With my mind as the canvas, the people I surrounded myself with added new colours into the mix, painting themselves within me, often times leaving temporary strokes of themselves, and if they meant a lot to me, the strokes would dry, becoming a permanent part of my memory and emotions. Amanda didn’t have a single solid colour. It was a rainbow, and whichever colour she chose to be at any moment in time would illuminate her strokes, but it was never stable. The colours would fluctuate and break, being replaced with new ones, and those would live their lives out like others prior.
We walked through the mall hand-in-hand, in complete silence. It wasn’t an awkward silence—it was mutual. Our conversations typically became still once they reached a point where responding became pointless, but more often than naught, we’d find another topic to discuss. We enjoyed the silence within each other’s company.
After passing a few stores, Amanda finally found one that peaked her interest. An arts and crafts store. She stopped in front of it and peered inside, attentive, yet cautious.
“What’s wrong?” I stopped with her and gazed at the store.
“Do you think I could be good at art?” she asked.
A spark of orange formed within her. A curious colour, one mixed from passion and joy. I could tell by her tonality and facial expression that she felt like she could find a calling of some sort. As though the store were reaching out to her to pursue unknown territory. Territory she might be able to trek, given enough practice and time.
“I dunnno, maybe.” I shrugged.
“We should go inside,” she said.
So we did.
The smell of new sketchbooks and massed produced (yet somehow incredibly overpriced) sets of paint filled my senses. I wandered the aisles with her, paying little attention to the items that crammed the shelves. However, she was completely engulfed in them, grabbing various things, observing their details, and ultimately, putting them back when something “better” grasped her attention. It was comparable to a child in a toy store.
Her face was bright and alive, as a new force within her awakened with each object she gathered. She ran to retrieve something new, and brought it to me. I attempted to show interest in what she was doing, but it was difficult for some reason. The reason was obvious, though, I just didn’t want to put any thought into it. As we entered the section of the store containing the paints, canvases, and easels, the uncomfortable feeling within me began to intensify. Suppressed memories and feelings were being dug up and projected in my mindset. I remembered long ago, the girl I’d fallen in love with three years back, sitting on the couch in her living room, a canvas and easel perched in front of her as she painted. And I remembered smiling, because I was next to her, watching the lines and strokes as they dragged along with the brush.
I wasn’t smiling now.
Amanda’s voice became muffled as my memories began to swarm around me. I blurred out the aisles and shelves, desperately trying not to remember the girl I fell in love with.
I realised at that moment that it wasn’t Amanda. It would never be Amanda. I knew who I had fallen in love with, and I knew I was never going to get her back. My heart seemed to be crumbling inside my chest, with the easels and canvases saturating my view. I held onto whatever broken pieces of myself that I could, and rushed out of the store.
From behind me, I heard her shouting. “Carl! Are you okay?” I felt her footsteps following me. I didn’t look back until I was far from the store.
When I turned, she was standing there, looking concerned. “Why did you leave?”
I inhaled deeply. “I don’t love you.”
“What?”
“I don’t love you, Amanda.”
Amanda looked confused for a second, but it quickly transformed to anger as she processed what I’d just said. “Then,” her voice broke. I could see tears forming on the edges of her eyes. “Then I don’t love you either.”
“I’m sorry.”
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