The next month and a half passes without much happening. I went and caught the flu for a week, bedbound and restless with Alex forcing me to lay down, while he made me soup and read out loud to me. Even though I complained throughout the entire week, I silently appreciated it. Appreciated especially what it brought my mind away from the thoughts of you-know-who.

Back on my own two feet and in a mood that overflows with creativity I get to work. The painting is pretty much finished (probably the fastest rendering I’ve done, while still being thorough and detailed), the only things left to do are some fixes on the background, and touch ups on the girl – it has to be perfect or else it might keep me up at night years to come. I might as well make a good job while I am ahead of my schedule.

I look up at the face of young Sylvia amidst the political and worldly chaos on the canvas. Everytime I do I expect to feel down, some sort of anxiety creeping up on me, sadness or something the like. But all I feel is this soft happiness, like when you find some old toy of yours and you remember all the fun you had, but also how sad you were when you lost it. The warm feeling in my stomach when I look at her I try to blame on the tea I’m drinking, but I know that isn’t the case. No, i need to let her go, or make a move soon, or the whole ordeal will drive me crazy. That is a fact.

A sort of calm settles over me as I once again look to the place where the background needs some more paint, and time becomes fuzzy like it usually does when I create. I barely notice as the studio lights turn on (now automatically, when I’ve bought a brand new timer) and flood the room with pretty daylight. It is not until I feel a steady headache start pounding at the base of my skull and behind my eyes, that I decide to stop my work and go to sleep.

Taking some steps back from the canvas I for the first time in a while look at the entire picture. Not being clear headed enough to determine what is good or bad, I quickly – and quite sloppy – clean my brushes, as well as scrubb of the worst of the paint on my hands and arms. If I know myself correctly I probably have paint on my face and hair, but that is a task for the morrow.

Grunting and muttering curses I turn of the studio lights, before striping of my clothes not giving enough shit to put on anything else, and collapsing on the bed.

***

Waking up to my alarm and Michael blasting whatever hip hop shit he is into at the moment. Usually it sounds less like music and more like a mower trying to chew through stone. I might have complained, but it felt rude to do when I was new to the building, and now it feels like it is too late. Furthermore, I sometimes play my own music at volumes that might be louder than socially acceptable. So I cannot ask him to quiet down, when I do the same.

I drag myself out of bed and get dressed, even though hanging around the studio naked sounds quite nice right now.

I waddle over to the “kitchen” (it is really a stove, refrigerator, and sink in one of the corners) and turn on the water boiler, preparing a cup of tea. Or maybe coffée, I have to see how much is left to de on the painting first. The same dread as always fills me as I make a sad looking excuse for breakfast: to look at your art after a creative streak that ended in a headache. There is always the possibility that everything is shit and has to be redone. It has happened enough times that I have developed a fear for what I like to call “the morning after”.

It is silly, really, I think as I turn, to find the painting as beautiful and well-done as the night before. The anticlimax of the moment hits me like a bucket of water, and I huff a laugh before pouring myself a cup of tea.

No the painting is still good, but I can still make it better. But after today I will contact Sylvia for one last checkup. Then, if it gets approved, it is just drying time left. And drying time can equal to time to get to know my old love, if things go right.

Filled with a new sense of creativity, I preach on my stoll and continue painting.

It’s not long until I find myself staring at the finished piece in front of me. I stretch my hands above my head, cracking my back with a sigh. I decide that messaging Sylvia as soon as possible is the best choice, to book a last check-up before I store it away for drying. And to maybe, maybe get a date. Just a chance to fix whatever bond we once had.

Whistling on a tune stuck in my head I pick up my phone to find three missed calls and ten texts from my dad. All texts just say “call me, love Dad”. I frown at the screen. My dad never texts, and he usually uses the home phone when he tries to reach me.

“He can wait a moment longer,” I murmur to myself. Still, I hurry up with composing a mail to Sylvia telling her that her order is ready for a final approval, and suggesting a date for her to come over. Hitting ‘send’ I switch over to my dad’s texts again, and find that another “call me” has shown up, this time without his usual signature. I can’t help but to get worried as the tones go on and off forever, until there is a click and a broken and tired “hello?”

“Dad!” I almost yell, a bit of relief washing over me at the sound of his voice. “What is it, has anything happened?”

There is a pause and a sigh filled with exhaustion. “Well, ehm…” He sighs again. “Cou-Could you sit down? Are you sitting?”

Alarms go off in my head at those words, but I shut them up and sit down on my painters stol. “Dad, what has happened? Just– Just tell me, okay?”

Another pause, and I swear I can hear him crying on the other end. Then a shuddering breath and– “It is mum, she– she collapsed this morning, I– I didn’t know what to do…!” A wet sob cracks. “She– oh, Danny, she–

“She didn’t make it to the hospital, I’m so sorry–”

There is a loud bang and I realize I’ve dropped the phone. There is a fine crack across the screen and a faint “hello, Dan? Sweetheart, please–” coming from it. I bend down, all sounds growing quieter and louder at the same time. Without really thinking I hang up on my dad.

Everything goes quiet.

And then there is a broken sound that I realize is emitted by me, and the entire world explodes.

I throw my phone across the room where it hits the wall, probably causing a dent. It falls and lands in front of the Van Gogh rose garden I finished the day I met Sylvia after so many years. I decided a few weeks ago that I would gift it to my parents on–

A sob quakes through me with fear and anger and rage screaming in my ears. Picking up a pair of scissors I fall on my knees in front of the now almost completely dry work. Staring at it, too many feelings and emotions consuming me, I raise my hand and cut the canvas right down the middle. A sense of satisfaction fills me, and screaming at the top of my lungs I stab the painting again and again. And when there isn’t much left for my weapon to get a hold of, I continue on to the next painting. And the next, and the next, until the only thing that is left is Sylvia’s stone-cold, open face staring back at me.

I don’t even bother to lift my arm – I would never be able to ruin it, even if my life hung on it.

My life–

I fall to my knees, dropping the scissors, and finally the tears come. Shaking and sobbing and yelling, I lay on the floor before my greatest work ever. And amidst my fit and the mess after that, I don’t hear Michael banging on my door – don’t hear him pry my door open and come rushing for me.

I don’t notice him before he gently picks me up and carries me out of my studio and into his. Through my blurred vision I barely see what surrounds me, but compared to my white-walled workspace, the walls in here are painted dark. He sets me down on his bed, and moves to remove my shoes. I let him, my body feeling numb and cold – as if I am drifting away from myself.

Murmuring words to calm me, Michael tucks me in and sits down beside me, all the while stroking my hair until my sobs calm and all that is left is the empty shell that once was me.

Right before I drift off to sleep I wonder what will become of me now.

***

When I wake up it is night, and I slowly realise where I am, and who is laying beside me. I try my best not to stir Michael as I turn around to look at the studio.

It has the same layout as my own, only mirrored, and with a totally other feeling to it. As I noted through my panic as he carried me in here the walls are painted a dark colour – possibly blue or a very dark grey. There is little space left on the floor, the majority of it belonging to five huge bookcases, a small desk, an old but sort of charming sofa, and a table with what looks to be a vinyl player on top. Looking in the other direction I find two expensive looking speakers.

“Where the hell is the pentry?” I murmur and frown in the direction of one of the bookcases.

“I have a microwave and a boiler at the foot of the bed.”

I jump at Michael’s voice from behind me, and I curse at him. He lets out a small laugh and I turn to face him.

He is lying propped up on his elbow, a smirk on his lips but his brow is slightly furrowed with concern. I’m always surprised at how handsome he really is, with olive toned skin, high cheekbones, and full lips. The slightly uptilted eyes and freckles does a lot to complete the look. Ever since I first met him the day he moved in and I helped him with his stuff, I’ve liked him. Not a crush, no cause I know by some weird force that he isn’t what I am looking for. No, it is more like the way you want to be with a celebrity or a stranger on the street – it is improbable and most likely won’t happen. Plus, I soon realised the type of women he liked, all the people he has brought home from whatever club or bar he goes to. I hear those girls more than I see them.

To be honest, there was a time when I had a theory he was running some sort of escort service, for the girls who came to him never came back again. I was wrong though (I found out by outright asking, I am a grown woman and he is my neighbour, and my curious ass couldn’t stand not knowing) turns out he is just a one-night-stand kind of dude. I was both relieved and a little disappointed – it would have been a bit fun to have a male prostitute living next door.

Now that same guy is looking me over with a face of pure worry and care, and I cannot help the butterflies filling my belly, the warmth growing between my legs.

“Thank you,” I say, “for coming.” I realise my voice is hoarse from my screaming, and I cringe a bit at it.

“I heard your screams and I got worried.” He reaches out and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You never make much sounds from you, I didn’t know if you were hurt or if someone was there with you. The the banging and yelling started and I realised you were crying, so I rushed out and you were lying there on the floor–” he shakes his head. “I couldn’t just leave you there.”

I swallow, thinking through what he just said. “How–how did you get into my studio?” If he broke the door he is paying for it, no arguing about it.

For a brief moment he looks embarrassed, shameful even as if he thinks I will disapprove of whatever he is about to explain. He takes a breath.

“Well, you know Mrs. Dourén, our landlady?” I nod. “Well, she has a hard time walking the stairs up here, and before her son could help her, but you remember he moved last year, so now she she has to take the stairs up here if something happens, if she needs access to our apartments, so well– hm– I offered to take the keys for our floor and for the one above, only so that she wouldn’t have to climb the stairs.”

I’ve never seen him so flustered, speaking so fast I almost have a hard time following. Red in the face he looks away from me, down at our feet.

“So,” I say fumbling with the blanket he laid over me. “You have a copy of my keys?”

His head snaps back to me, his eyes shining with a bit of panic. “What? No! Well, I mean, yes… But it’s not like I’ve used them before! Hell, they are for emergencies, like I don’t– wait why are you laughing?”

I cannot help the bubbling laughter coming up my throat, but my entire self feels light with the sound. I smile at him. “Don’t worry, I just wanted to know if you’d damaged my door, that’s all.”

“Oh,” he says. “No, no, it is fine, don’t worry.”

We lay there quiet for a moment just staring at each other. I can see his mind working, probably building up for the question I know is coming, that I know I won’t be able to answer. That I do not want to answer.

So before he can say anything I kiss him.

At first nothing really happens, and I'm about to pull back and apologize, when I feel his arm rounding my back and pulling me closer. He deepens the kiss, our tongues mingling. His hair is soft between my fingers and I lose myself in him, forgetting all the bad, my mum and Sylvia.

Just for a moment I pretend the last few months never happened.