Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 85(@200wpm)___ 68(@250wpm)___ 57(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 85(@200wpm)___ 68(@250wpm)___ 57(@300wpm)
I don’t know if it’s the moonlight, the dancing, and September herself, but I know that I don’t want to let her go.
Ever.
Chapter Five
September
I am still walking on air. Last night's date was amazing. It was thoughtful, fun, quiet, cozy, and us—at least what I picture a life with him would be like: quiet but real, noisy but full of color, and, lastly, full of love but fun. Ah. I shake my head, trying to clear my mind. Right now, I am in my charcoal drawing class, and I need to focus.
“Good morning, my budding young artists. Hopefully, everyone is rested and ready to take the world by storm.” Smiling, I nod my head. I love Professor Comp’s class. She is always the glass half full. She is happy and full of encouragement and enthusiasm. “Today I want you to make something personal. It can be a person, place or thing. Something that feels like life to you. Something you want to breathe in and soak up and never let go. I want to see it or them as you see them in your mind. Got it?”
My mind starts racing because I don’t know what to choose. I would draw Clutter, my tabby cat, but when I left her behind, I had to sort of close myself off to her because I loved her so much. It was unbearable, but there were no pets in the dorm.
Unsure what to do, I follow my normal ritual. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, and allow myself to drift off into a space that is all black, void of anything, giving me a blank path of development. I feel my hands touch the utensils, memorizing them and becoming one with them. Finally, when I feel one with my surroundings and what I need to do, I open my eyes and allow my mind to drift into a space where nothing exists but me and the canvas.
I have no idea how long I have been in the chair—just me, the canvas, and my charcoal. I spaced out, but when the teacher came to me, I snapped out of it and looked at what I drew. Gasping, my hand flies to my mouth. Holy moly. I drew Trevor, and not as an abstract figure. No, this is Trevor. Anyone who takes the class he TAs for will know it is him.
“Wow, Miss Bettancourt. How realistic. It is almost as if he is right in front of your face. This is aspiring work, my dear.” I know she is telling me something complementary, but I feel panic now. Instead of basking in her words, I nod my head to say thank you, rip the canvas off the easel, and run out of there,
I am running so fast and with so much focus that I don’t see where I am going, and I bump into a chest. “Whoa, where you running to, babe?” I look up into the eyes of the object of my mind, and suddenly, it is even more urgent that I get as far away from here as possible. The canvas is clutched closely to my chest.
“Oh, hi. I gotta go.” I flee past him, my eyes slightly wet from tears I hate, but that is what happens when I am overcome and anxious. My chest is heaving as I go to my dorm, sighing in relief when my roommate is not home. Tossing everything on the floor, I sit on the bed, pulling my knees up to my chest, and simply sit there because I don’t know what to do.
For as long as I can remember, I have suffered from anxiety. At first, my parents ignored it and brushed it off as a cry for attention, but then one day, when I was at school, and a test was sprung on us at the last minute, I had a panic attack right there in front of everyone, passed out and had to be rushed to the hospital. There, the doctor diagnosed me with an anxiety disorder, much to the chagrin of my parents because, once again, the glaring realization that I was not as perfect as everyone else.
Over time and with much therapy, I have found my triggers. One of which is the unknown. I don’t like being unsure about something, not having the answers, or being aware that something will happen. It messes with my mind. So, as you can imagine, this ‘thing’ with Trevor is a big hole being dug into all the work I have done to keep my attacks under control. It’s not the situation itself; it’s more the not knowing what we are, what lines can’t be crossed considering he is a TA, the consequences, and blah, blah, blah.
A knock on the door makes my head jerk upward. Slowly, I walk over to it and open the door. “Trevor, what are you doing here?” Lame, I know.