Sebastian

When Rose unlocked her door, she turned to me and smiled. "For you," she said, holding out the painting.

I raised my eyebrows. "You want me to have it?" She simply nodded, extending her arms out further. As much as I appreciated the offer, the painting didn't belong to me. "You keep it, Rose."

"Why?" She asked skeptically, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned the painting against the wooden wall. She watched me with those analytical eyes of hers.

I shrugged. "I think you need it more than I do."

She cocked her head to the side. "You think I need a painting of you barely clothed?" I felt my face heat up. I was beginning to realize that Rose enjoyed making me blush.

Rose told me that she had only ever painted two people: her ex-boyfriend and, now, myself. She didn't have to say it, but I could sense that painting was intimate for her — that she was just rediscovering her love for it.

This painting was a symbol of that, a reminder. The last thing I wanted to do was take it away from her.

"I think you need this painting to remind yourself that you're able to create something beautiful," I told her. The smug smirk quickly vanished from her face and I watched her lip begin to quiver. "What?" I took a step forward as she took a step back.

She bent down quickly and picked up the painting. When her eyes locked on mine, I could see it once more — the familiar sadness, the darkness that folded around the soft lines of her face.

I opened my mouth to ask, to say anything to prolong this conversation but Rose spoke first. "Goodnight," she whispered, hugging the painting to her chest as she retreated into the cabin.

Had I said something wrong? I watched the door close behind her, shutting me out.

I sighed. Frustrated with myself, I took off my beanie and ran a shaky hand through my hair as I replayed our conversation in my head.

I need a damn hair cut.

More importantly, I needed to get off Rose's porch and stop staring longingly at her door.

I stood there for another moment and, when it was clear her door wouldn't be opened, I sulked back to my cabin and shut the door behind me as I rested my forehead against the smooth wood. What had I said that sent her running inside? I knew painting was personal for her, but she wanted to paint me. Why would she shy away from talking about it?

I knew all about wanting to push people away. The look in Rose's eyes when she said goodnight was exactly that. And I wanted to know what had happened to her to make her so reserved. So afraid.

Maybe we had more in common than we thought.

I turned around, already imagining climbing into bed, when I noticed someone watching me.

I swore under my breath. "Dammit, Violet. What are you doing in here?"

She was sitting on the ledge of the couch, her feet dangling in the air. The mischievous grin that usually marked her face was missing, replaced with a deep thoughtfulness.

I opened the fridge and took out a water bottle, drinking the entire thing in a mater of seconds. She still hadn't spoken.

"Violet?" I asked gently as I walked towards the couch. Out of habit, my hand reached out to comfort her before I awkwardly tucked it into my pocket.

Her gaze flicked up from the floor, her eyes latching onto mine like magnets. "Do you remember when we first met, Seb?" She asked quietly, sadness weighing down her voice.

I walked to the chair opposite the couch and sat down slowly, avoiding her question. I could feel Violet's eyes following me.

"Of course." I finally replied, sighing in defeat.

The beginning of Violet and mine's relationship wasn't something I enjoyed thinking about. It was filed with trips to the hospital. With me holding her hand as she went through hours of chemo. All the nights she had cried on my shoulder. All the nights we had spent wondering if it would be our last.

I blinked, pushing out the memories of waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of her crying.

My heart ached in my chest as I watched her. I still loved her. Even after all this time.

And I knew that, for the rest of my life, I would love her.

"You stuck by me through it all. You were my anchor, Sebastian. You still are." In more ways than one, was what she didn't say. Violet turned to face me and I wished... I wished I could just hold her again.

"Why are you bringing this up?" Violet hated speaking about her sickness more than I did. She hated reflecting on the time in her life when her own strength failed her.

There was a point to this conversation, I realized. And I had the shrinking suspicion I knew what it was.

"When I was sick, I felt...empty, Sebastian. Like I was fighting a battle I knew I couldn't win. I remember looking in the mirror and seeing the light fade in my own eyes until I couldn't recognize myself anymore. I see the same look in Rose's eyes. The same look in yours, too."

This was about Rose? I rubbed my eyes with the back of my fists. "That's not true," I began, before I fully processed her words. "Wait — you've been watching Rose?"

Violet shrugged as she chewed on her lip nervously. "I watch you, Seb. She just happens to be there." Her voice implied that she wasn't fond of it.

"You need to stop this, Vi. Stop analyzing my life and telling me what I feel. I'm fine," I stressed.

"No, you're not."

I shook my head and actually laughed. Exhaustion was getting the best of me. "I'm going to bed. Stop wandering the woods and watching people. Especially Rose."

I stood up as Violet spoke again. "I'm a jealous ex-girlfriend," she said apathetically. "And it's not like I have anything better to do." She mumbled the last part and I felt a twinge of guilt.

"There's nothing to be jealous about." The words sat awkwardly between us. By the look Violet was giving me, she could sense it, too.

"Not yet." She said simply, smirking. "You have a thing for damaged people, Sebastian. You need to help them, to save them. But sometimes you can't. Sometimes they have to be their own saviour."

Anger bubbled up inside my chest. I knew exactly who she was referring to and I didn't want any part of this conversation.

Speaking to Violet was like taking a knife and plunging it into my own heart. With every word, every glance, the knife would rotate, creating a new, fresh wound.

A wound I now realized would never heal.

"Thanks for the advice, Vi." I said sarcastically, as I walked down the hallway towards my bedroom.

"Sebastian!" Violet called behind me. I could hear her footsteps following me. Eventually, they came to a halt as I slammed the bedroom door shut.

I threw myself on my bed and I knew that she had left. A familiar emptiness settled around me — a loneliness I had grown accustomed to. The same feeling that pushed me to move out here in the first place.

Violet was toxic. Talking to her, being around her ... She was a drug I knew I shouldn't indulge in because the high would wear off soon enough and all I was left with was a damaged heart. But I still did. Everyday. Because living with her was better than living without her.

I had learned that the hard way.

And I hated this. This game the two of us had been playing for two years. Yet for some reason, we were still here. Still playing. It needed to end before I lost my mind fighting for a girl I could never have again.

I groaned, placing a pillow on top of my own head to block out these thoughts.

Even when I fell asleep, my mind was still running. My dreams were filled with purple flowers and bright red roses.

* * *

When I woke up the next morning, right before sunrise, I trudged outside, exhaustion still slowing my steps, to pick up the guest's garbage, another task I had grown familiar with.

But when I reached Rose's cabin, my footsteps stopped suddenly. My sharp intake of breath broke the early morning silence.

Resting aside the black garbage bag was a canvas. I turned it over and felt my heart halt when I recognized what it was.

Rose has thrown out her painting of me and I knew, I knew, it had everything to do with our conversation last night.

I glanced towards her cabin. The blinds were still drawn, not a light was turned on. She had to be sleeping still. Quickly, I picked up her garbage in one hand, the painting in the other, and prayed she wasn't watching from somewhere inside as I brought the painting into my own cabin and left it resting against the wall in the hallway.

If she wanted to think it was garbage, a mistake, then fine. But the only thing I saw when looking at her artwork was the beauty embodied in the person who painted it.

So I would keep it, I decided, until the day came when Rose saw herself the way I did and wanted it back.

___

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