Work Text:
Afterwards, everyone tells you it's been a long time coming.
That you took the steps too fast, that moving in together after just a few months was a bad idea. That it's a wonder the things haven't escalated sooner.
You wonder why they didn't tell you back then. When you first met, in that stuffy room in the bowels of the art department building, spending hours trying to replicate the curves of her body on your canvas.
When you invited her to a coffee date after the class was done, waving your friends goodbye with a grin. Why didn't they tell you then that they had a bad feeling about her?
Instead they kept their words until it was too late, until your heart was smashed to pieces under her heel.
She left her things when she left.
Not that she had much of a choice, the fight was nasty and if it were you in her position you would storm away too. You let her come back once, with her brother and enough trash bags to fit three months.
You sat on the couch, a glass of wine in hand, and watched as she packed her things with steady hands. You thought of stopping her. Of asking her to stay, to give you a second chance.
But instead you sat there, sipping on the red you were saving for your anniversary, quietly watching. She threw you her keys before she left, and said you should toss anything you find left of her.
Your studio is littered with portraits of her.
You can deny it all you want, but she seeps into everything you make. Each stroke of a brush, the shapes clay takes under your fingers, smudges of charcoal on your pants.
Her face is nowhere to be seen, yet you can't escape her gaze. You stare at painted flowers for hours on end, trying to make them less like her, yet the roses always come out ginger instead of red like they're supposed to.
It's been a month now. You consider not taking more commissions.
It was beautiful for a time.
She would sit on the couch to work, with a laptop placed precariously on its arm. You would sit by her feet, and rest your head in her lap as she stroked your hair. You would close your eyes, letting her murmurs wash over you.
In turn she would sit in the back of your workshop, watching with fond eyes as you mixed your paints. She would try to muffle her laughter whenever you swore a blue streak over cracked glaze or smudged ink.
You don’t remember exactly when it stopped.
It catches you by surprise when you find a notebook full of poems hidden in the couch cushions.
When you first started finding the things she left behind, you would put them away into an old shoebox. You thought that maybe one day you could bring them back to her.
But one night, drunk on a cocktail of whiskey and regret, you scoured your apartment, looking for any trace of her left. You threw away everything that reminded you of her, be it her actual things, keepsakes of memories you'd made together, even the sketches you had made of her weren't spared.
The notebook is bound in blue leather, and full to the brim. You can't remember her without it on hand, even before she moved in with you. Always scribbling
You sit on the floor of your apartment, the cold spring sun shining through the open windows. With the vacuum hose tangled around your legs, you settle to read the poems of winter.