#these genuinely are the only canvases i’ve ever been a part of that had absolutely prolific fa works

[jostnns]

nobody wants to acknowledge it but heatwaves is to mcyt as dirty laundry was to voltron

[evilkennedy]

Mathematically Proportionate

Summary: Your favorite gays in space have decided to paint. Fluff ensues. 

Pairing: S’vec Sylar (male OC @plaktow-ed) x Cristobal (Cris) Rios

Word count: 1,694

Note before you read: Listen, I have had this planned for a while. I am just insecure and it took me a while to write out fully without wanting to cry. Anyway I’m gonna post this and run away.. please be nice I’m soft.

“!Ay caramba! What a day.” The Captain stood up on the teleportation pad, reaching a hand out to help Sylar up. They just had a meeting with what was supposed to be a potential client and it hadn’t gone well to say the least. Luckily, they were both safe and sound on the ship again. 

Sylar took the hand offered to him, using it to stand up proceeding to dust himself off before adjusting himself to straighten in his, somewhat stiff, usual position. “It was definitely something, sir.” Rios walked away from the pad, rolling his shoulders in the process, before mumbling a response, “You can say that again.” He couldn’t help but think about how sore they were both going to be for a few days following this. Sylar followed behind him without a word, hands neatly placed behind his back and thinking the same thing.

Rios huffed as he plopped down onto the piloting seat. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He plotted coordinates to the next place they were expected to meet a possible client. It took all of five minutes to get them onto the right course. He hoped that this call would actually be someone in need. Not an attack. He shook his head at the thought. Sylar was watching curiously behind him. Cris then closed the hologram, having already put the ship in the right direction. He clasped his hands together and stood. 

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink. He looked away for a moment, thinking, “How do you feel about painting?” The questions weren’t really genuine questions as much as they were suggestions. His mind was working a mile a minute and he was sure that Sylar would notice his anxiety soon. The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “You know that I do not drink, Captain.. And painting? I have only ever done so once and- well it does not matter.” Cris eyed him and nodded slowly. He asked the computer to replicate his favorite alcohol and began to walk away with it as soon as it had appeared, gesturing for Sylar to follow him.

~

Upon reaching his quarters, he opened the door and walked in. He was completely oblivious to the confused head tilt behind him, before Sylar spoke up, “What are we doing in here?” Rios smiled brightly without even turning to look at the other man. He had his eyes set on the supplies that they had come in here for. “We-” He paused picking up two canvases from a hidden corner in his room, “-are going to paint.” The soft smile hadn’t left his face as he turned toward Sylar, lifting up the two canvases in his hands. Sylar quirked an eyebrow typically at this. Cris had indeed mentioned painting..

The Vulcan’s expression softened, only slightly, as he noticed that Cris was still smiling. It was a smile the other only seemed comfortable to wear around him. It was quite lovely. “I suppose I can give it another try, if it will please you.” He held out his hands, offering to take the canvases so that Rios could carry the other supplies. The Captain obliged, handing him the canvases as he turned to grab the rest of what he had in his art collection.  He glanced over all of the items, luckily there was more than enough for the both of them. He then tossed all of what they needed onto his bed. He then grabbed some old newspapers in order to cover the area, or at least the area he was painting in, before setting everything else up. 

After this was all finished, Cris stood up straight, clasping his hands together. Sylar had only watched him curiously, not really knowing what to do. “Alright, this is everything. You can use whatever paints you’d like-” Rios gestured to the paints in the center of their designated area, “-just put the ones you want to use on your palette.” The doctor listened to every word carefully, despite having painted before. “Yes sir.” 

~

Several hours later, smooth jazz music was playing from Rios’ record player. He was pleasantly buzzed from the alcohol and almost finished with his painting, when Sylar spoke up, obviously confused, “Captain, why is my face wet?” These words caused him to look away from his painting and to his adorably concerned lover. His own appearance was a mess to say the least, he was covered in paint and  he held one of his brushes in his mouth as he glanced over the expanse of  Sylar’s face. He couldn’t help but laugh as he took the brush out of his mouth to speak, “You have paint on your cheek, dear.” This only confused Sylar further. “Why is that amusing? You have paint all over your face and in your hair.” The other man shook his head fondly, “It’s cute.” He didn’t say another word as he added finishing touches to his painting. He added a bright blue brush stroke against the soft cheek of the man in the painting. Sylar was blushing from head to toe as he finished his own painting. Something intricately detailed and rather beautiful. He momentarily wondered if Cris would like it. He was still blushing as his bondmate had spoken up again, “You finished?” He sat back, away from his own painting and Sylar could only come to the conclusion that he was done with his and that is why he was asking. He took a moment to briefly glance over his own. “Yes, I believe I am.” This caused Rios to smile, any anxiety he had experienced before this was long gone. “Okay, so usually when people paint together, they count down and then show each other their individual paintings at the same time. Shall we do that?” Sylar seemed to ponder this for a moment before decidedly nodding. Cris took his painting in both hands, slightly nervous to expose it to Sylar, as he’d never shared his artistic side with the man before. 

“Alright, 1… 2… 3.” They both simultaneously turned their paintings around. Cris gaped as Sylar’s painting came into his view. It was a sort of galaxy, but more ethereal than any part of the galaxy that he had ever seen. It was so detailed and very obviously well thought-out, much unlike his own painting which was decidedly not. He wondered where the Vulcan had come up with the idea. It was truly a sight to behold and he wondered why the man didn’t paint more frequently.

In his admiration of Sylar’s painting, he hadn’t realized the aforementioned man blushing even darker as he revealed his painting to him. He didn’t know what he had expected when Rios turned around his canvas but it hadn’t been that. How did he manage to capture him so beautifully? There was no way that he was this angelic in person, it had to have been Rios’ own artistic style in combination with the man’s vision of himself. 

Cris turned his own painting back around, now quite shy to hear the other’s opinion after having seen his lovely art. “I’m speechless. Where did you- Why don’t you paint more? That is the most aesthetic piece of art I have seen in a while.” Sylar wasn’t expecting this reaction from Cris and he could tell. “I- Well, sir, I have been told that I should stick with my chosen profession. It is a waste of time to do anything artistic as a hobby, since I do not have the emotion to properly express anything of meaning in a painting nor in a song.” Rios wasn’t surprised to hear this. These were obviously words that Sylar had been told before and he could not believe the absolute ignorance behind them. He softened his gaze as he responded, “If it means anything, I think it is absolutely stunning. Looks better than anything I’ve ever seen, even in person. Have you seen a portion of the galaxy that looks like this?” Cris had long since forgotten of his own insecurities since he began talking to Sylar about his painting. He watched as the man glanced at the ground before speaking again, “It is actually what I see when I look at you, occasionally. It is not a galaxy so much as it is your soul, or your katra as we would call it. I just portrayed it as I see it.” He glanced back up to gauge Rios’ reaction. He blushed slightly before letting out a breathless syllable, “Oh.” That wasn’t anything that he was expecting at all. “I’m flattered.” His demeanor had changed and he knew it. He felt a bit shyer due to the intimacy of the situation. They had both, in a way, painted the other. 

“I should be the one who is flattered, Captain. You painted me so.. Beautifully. I certainly do not look quite that… angelic. You have a natural talent. The proportions are mathematically, near perfect.” Sylar’s ears flushed a light green again at the thought of the painting. The idea behind it was sweet. He had even included the paint that he had gotten on his cheek. Cris shook his head, “It’s just how I see you. You are absolutely stunning. I only paint what I see.. In my specific style.” He chuckled lightly and rubbed his hands together, a nervous habit he developed as a child. 

This was enough to stun Sylar into silence. He was still surprised that Cris returned his affections, much more that he found him attractive as well. 

“Taluhk nash-veh k’dular, t’nash-veh t’hy’la.” The Vulcan spoke softly, still in awe that someone as wonderful as Cris had welcomed him into his life. The Captain easily returned the statement with his own as he stood, “Y te amo, mi amor.” He walked over to where Sylar was still sitting and kissed his forehead. “Let’s clean this mess up and then ourselves, what do you say? Then, we can hang up our paintings.” He held out a hand for Sylar to take. Sylar took his hand and stood up easily. “That does sound quite satisfactory, sir.”

Ending note: Thank you so much for reading, feel free to leave feedback. <3

[vanilla107]

Masterpiece Part 8

Okay, a HUGE thank you to everyone who has been so freaking patient with this fanfiction. I know it has been months and school has killed me in more ways than one. I only have a week left of holidays so I'll try to update again soon but no promises! To my usual NathChlo army, you guys know who you are and make writing this fanfiction ten times more enjoyable to write.

I know I missed out on NathChlo week last month because of exams and I was so upset that I didn't get to take part in it, but seeing the comments from people saying that this was recommended for them to read during that week made my day!

Loads of love and hugs vanilla107 xoxo

Masterlist for Masterpiece: https://vanilla107.tumblr.com/post/162975990025/masterpiece-masterlist

***************************************************************************************************** Chloe swallowed nervously as she covered her eyes with her hands. "Nath...I don't think this is a good idea." He chuckled and gently nudged her on her back, signaling her to walk forward. "Just trust me. I'm not leading you to your death, I promise." "That's what every murder says to the victim before they kill them," mumbled Chloe.

They were only a few blocks away from the ‘surprise’ Nathanaël had planned for her and quite frankly, Chloe was a little nervous. She liked being able to leave work early. She liked that she could (sort of) cook and she liked spending time with Nathanaël.

Maybe too much, a nagging voice whispered in her mind.Chloe clenched her jaw and Nathanaël looked at her, concerned.

“Chloe, I’m right behind you. I promise you won’t get hurt,” he said soothingly.

She shook her head and took a breath. “I’m alright ,today was just a hectic day. Y’know, grumpy customers,” she lied as she took her first steps forward down the street with Nathanaël leading her to the surprise.

Nathanaël was right about it being cold and Chloe was grateful that her turtleneck managed to keep some of the cold at bay. She huddled closer to the lilac knitting and walked a few more steps until she felt Nathanaël’s hand gently put pressure on her shoulder, signaling her to stop walking.

Chloe heard Nathanaël exchange a few words with someone and soon she sensed that they must've walked through a door because the temperature rose to a comfortable warmth. After a few more steps she felt her foot hit a step.

There was a tense silence before Chloe, in a low threatening voice, said,"No." "Yes." "You CAN'T expect me to walk up a staircase blind, Nathanaël!" "It's only one staircase, it's not that steep and besides, I'm right behind you aren't I?" Chloe sighed and took a shaky breath as she slowly started to walk up the stairs. She could feel Nathanaël's hand lightly on her shoulder as she walked. Chloe let out a sigh of relief when she got to the top. "We're almost there, Chloe. Just a few more steps." Nathanaël's breath tickled her ear and she felt weird tingly sensations up her spine. She wasn't used to him being so close to him. After taking a few turns, Nathanaël put a hand on her shoulder and she stopped. "You can open your eyes now." "This better of been worth it, Nathanaël Kurtzberg because that staircase- Woah..." Chloe's mouth shut and her eyes widened. Staring at her was a gallery of Nathanaël's artwork, all lined up in a row, colour bursting from the canvases. Chloe took a step forward and her eyes getting lost in each painting, taking her time to admire each one. The biggest painting was in the middle and Chloe swallowed uneasily when she saw it. 'Rage' was the reason Nathanaël became so famous and that same painting was staring back at her. Chloe could see the anger and frustration in the sharp strokes of black, burgundy and red. The colours merged in the middle to form a black silhouette of a boy with a single white tear running down his face and his mouth opening to scream. Chloe had only ever seen 'Rage' in newspapers or on tv but seeing it up close was a whole new experience. She walked towards it and tried to keep her voice from trembling. "It's amazing." Nathanaël heard the tremble in her voice and took a step towards her. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "I didn't want to make you sad. I want you to see what I've done. 'Rage' got me started and look at that one-" Nathanaël pointed to a smaller canvas which had curly  soft lines in charcoal that got thicker and thicker. "-recognize it?" Chloe took a step towards the canvas and Nathanaël’s hand left her shoulder. Chloe cocked her head to the side and her eyes widened in surprise. "Is that...my bracelet that my dad gave me in high school?" Nathanaël nodded,"Yes." "But that was years ago! Why would you draw it?" Chloe asked incredulously as she turned to face him. Nathanaël smiled and she felt her stomach do a little flip. "I still liked the design so I decided to draw it." Chloe let her eyes wander to each art work. On her right was a painting of a girl with pink hair roller blading down a street lined with orange autumn leaves. Next to that painting, the smallest canvas, done in pastel, a small blonde and a tall raven-haired girl sitting at a cafe. "Hey, That's Alix, right? And Rose and Juleka!" Nathanaël nodded ,a smile on his face. "That's them, alright."

Chloe inspected every single artwork with critique and nodded thoughtfully as she recognized them mediums he used.

“I like that you don’t stick with just one medium,” she commented and the red-head artist was shocked for a few moments.

“What? You didn’t expect me to know art lingo, did you?” Chloe teased and she smiled when she saw the slight redness on the tips of his ears.

“N-No! It’s just that I didn’t....Okay, fine! I didn’t expect you to know,” Nathanaël admitted bashfully.

“Daddy always had these artists come over and paint a new portrait of him every year. I got interested in the process and one of the artists taught me a thing or two regarding mediums, canvases, types of pencils and techniques on shading. I never got the hang of drawing or painting but I love seeing the process and results. Like here you-”

Nathanaël was speechless.

Here, he’d thought that Chloe had been an absolute talentless hag who didn’t know how to appreciate art in high school but...she actually understood some forms of art?

“Nathanaël? Earth to Nathanaël!”He snapped out of his daydream and focused on the blonde that was looking mildly annoyed.

“W-what? I’m sorry I zoned out for a second.”

“I was explaining how I liked how you used the natural light to get the shading-” “-I can't believe you knew all this in high school and you still criticized me about my art! Why?” Nathanaël blurted out.

Chloe rolled her eyes as if it was obvious and gave him a look as if to say, ‘seriously?’

“Well, how else was I supposed to talk to you? I guess I was too...I don’t know, jealous of your work? I only thought about myself, Nathanaël. I thought I could paint but that turned out to be a failure. And even though your art was magnificent, I could never say it! I had already bullied you to a point where even if I did say that your art was amazing, you probably would’ve disregarded my comment anyway.”

Nathanaël thought for a moment and then nodded. “Okay, you have a point,” he chuckled before looking at his watch and looked surprised.

“Oh, it’s quite late...since my work is here I asked the manager if they would allow someone in after hours. There’s a little cafe downstairs. You want something to eat?”

Chloe grinned and nodded. The two walked down the stairs in comfortable silence.

“So, this is my one month anniversary surprise? Damn, you are one cheap ‘boyfriend’,” Chloe snorted as they walked to the cafe and Nathanaël smirked.

“What makes you think the surprise is over, love? And I must say that the blush in your cheeks compliments the lilac of your turtleneck,” he teased.

Chloe felt her stomach squeeze and she knew her cheeks must’ve gone an even brighter shade of red.

“You’re such a little shit, Nathanaël Kurtzberg! And stop calling me ‘love’!” she groaned and Nathanaël laughed.

“I thought you liked being complimented, you have been complimented your whole life, right?”

That was true.

Being the mayor's’ daughter meant that people had sucked-up to her and always said the most sickeningly sweet words and she was used to that. But Nathanaël complimenting her was something else.

He meant those words and she knew it.

It felt genuine.

“Yeah...I have...but it’s different being complimented by someone I hurt,” she lied smoothly and thankfully, Nathanaël didn’t seem to notice as they stopped at the tiny but cosy cafe’.

The cafe had shades of dark brown and tan furniture. The scent of coffee and chai sent Chloe’s senses into heaven and she sighed.

They took a seat and ordered their food. There was no one else in the cafe except them and the waitress.

“So why did Gabriella ask about me this morning?” Nathanaël asked as he sipped his matcha green tea.

Chloe shrugged her shoulders as she stirred her vanilla latte.

“I think she must’ve seen you as you left and asked Mr. Shelley. She feels entitled to know everything and that’s why she was such a pest. I suppose you saying that you’re my boyfriend also peaked her interest. She probably didn’t think I was even capable of getting one,” Chloe grumbled.

“Well, you seemed to put her in her place this afternoon,” Nathanaël wiggled his eyebrows.

“What were those words again? ‘Nathanaël Kurtzberg is the sweetest, kindest and most hottest guy I know. He is extremely talented and he is so attractive I might die! Did I mention that he would make an amazing stripper?’” Nathanaël said in a high-pitched voice. 

Chloe choked on her latte and Nathanaël burst out laughing.

“I do NOT sound like that Kurtzberg! And those are NOT the words I said!” she growled which only made him laugh even harder.

The waitress arrived with their food and Chloe forgot about Nathanaël’s teasing for the moment.

“Hmmm,” she mumbled as she ate her panini.

“Y’know, you work at a restaurant, Chloe. Don’t you like the food there?”

“Filter coffee and greasy eggs got nothing on a vanilla latte and a grilled turkey and pesto panini,” Chloe stated as she finished her panini before spotting a flyer on one of the notice boards.

She walked closer to get a better look and smiled. “Oh, I didn’t realize that you were having your own gallery showing in a few weeks,” Chloe said as she looked at the flyer advertising his work.

Nathanaël ran a hand through his hair nervously. “I didn’t want many people to know. None of the newspapers know. Only me and the gallery and now you. One of the staff here must've put up that flyer today. Obviously, I’ll be inviting other people but I don’t want to be hounded by the paparazzi again.”

Chloe picked up a trace of bitterness in Nathanaël’s tone and walked back to the table.

“Well, it’s going to be great. I know it. You probably have started paintings for this show right?”

Nathanaël nodded as he finished the last of his panini and paid for the food.

“C’mon then. Let’s go home and you can finish them. I have work tomorrow so I got to go sleep...ugh...stupid Gabriella and Mr Shelley,” she muttered and Nathanaël laughed.

They exited the warm cafe and Chloe didn’t realize how much the temperature had dropped. As they walked home, the cold was biting at her into her bones and she was a shivering mess.

“Here,” Nathanaël murmured as he took off his jacket and laid it on her shoulders. She felt warm instantly and sighed as the cold melted away.

“Thank you,” she replied softly as they continued to walk.

They spoke about art and Nathanaël was impressed with how much she actually knew. Chloe, on the other hand, was overwhelmed by the impact she had on Nathanaël’s artwork.

Sure, ‘Rage’ was a scream of how her torment made him feel and the other one was just a materialistic object...which did make her feel like crap but she was happy that Nathanaël found a release for his anger. They finally made it back to the apartment and Nathanaël walked Chloe to her door.

“Thank you for showing me your work, Nathanaël. And I’ll never repeat this again...and if I hear it from someone else...you are dead….but your art is fantastic. Some of the best detail I’ve ever seen.” Chloe grinned.

The redhead chuckled and smiled. “I’m happy I got to show you. Goodnight Chloe.”

“Goodnight.” Chloe unlocked her apartment door and gasped.

“Chloe? Is everything okay?” Nathanaël asked.

“Yeah, everything is okay...it’s just freaking cold...my window doesn’t close properly so it’s basically a freezer in here,” Chloe shivered as she walked over to her window and tried to close it.

Nathanaël followed her into her apartment and tried to help her close her window.

“Chloe, it’s no use. Your window won’t close and if we try any harder, it will break,” Nathanaël said as he looked at the wood indentations on his hands.

“Whatever. I’ve suffered through worse and it’s just a little wind...I’ll be fine-!”

At that moment, the sky crackled and it started to rain. Chloe looked out of her window in disbelief.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” she swore as droplets started to wet her windowsill and floor.

“That’s it. I’m so done. I get that karma is a bitch but seriously?” Chloe paced up and down her apartment. “Why. Why can’t I have one night of peace?”Chloe tried closing her window again but failed and continued to vent.“Today was going so well! And then this-,” she points to the window, “-has to happen!”

Nathanaël looked at the furious blonde and chuckled.

“Why are you laughing! Do you like seeing me hate the world?” Chloe glared.

Nathanaël grinned and brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Well, I was going to offer if you wanted to sleepover at my place tonight but...I do enjoy watching you hate the world.”

Chloe froze and stared at him, not really knowing how to respond. Nathanaël smiled before turning around and walking to her door. He stopped and turned his head so that he could see her.

“You’ll freeze to death...or get hypothermia...or become a literal ice queen...but get your pajamas and your toiletries. I’ll get someone to fix your window later this week.”

Without another word, he walked out of her apartment.

Chloe stared at the empty doorway, dumbstruck. Had Nathanaël just offered to let her stay at his place again? She didn’t ponder on the thought when she felt the icy cold rain hit her back and she quickly gathered her toiletries and changed into her pajamas.

She brushed her teeth and pulled out her blonde ponytail so that it fell into golden waves around her shoulders. Chloe locked her apartment door and ran across to Nathanaël’s apartment and knocked.

“-Damn Chloe, I didn’t know you were capable of changing so fast-” Nathanaël said as he opened the door but was immediately shoved aside.

He looked at the blonde in shock as she ran to his bedroom and jumped under the covers. Chloe waited for her body heat to warm up the duvet and heard a laugh.

“Wow, Chloe. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you ran that fast.”

“Shut up,” she murmured and she heard another laugh.

There was silence before she heard him mutter, “Dammit.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked from under the covers.

“I forgot to pick up my extra blankets from the dry cleaners today so I don’t have a blanket to sleep on the couch-”

“Sleep here, then.”

Chloe had no idea where the courage say that came from. She had just asked Nathanaël to sleep in the same bed as her.

“You sure? I don’t want-”

“Nathanaël, this is your bed. I don’t mind...as long as you’re not a cuddler,” she warned as she peeked her head up from under the covers to look at him with a warning look but cocked her head to the side.

“Nathanaël? Hello?” she asked and snapped the artist out of his daydream.

“I’ve never seen your hair down before...it just took my by surprise.” he said carefully as he took in her long golden locks cascading down her face.

Chloe shrugged her shoulders. “Working at a restaurant and long hair do not mix at all, so I opt for a ponytail and during high school, I was the only one who wore a ponytail so I kept that style.”

Nathanaël nodded, still transfixed on how her hair flowed from her head to her shoulders. He quickly grabbed his pajamas and went to the bathroom, changed and brushed his teeth, to avoid staring at her for too long.

She looks beautiful, he thought as he yawned and finished brushing his teeth. Nathanaël walked back to the bedroom before stopping and chuckling. Chloe was already asleep, her breathing soft and her halo of hair framing her face.

Nathanaël never thought he’d compare Chloe Bourgeois to an angel but she looked...angelic.

He switched off the light and carefully maneuvered himself so that he didn’t touch her while sliding into his side of the bed. Once under the covers he could just make out Chloe’s figure in the dark.

“Goodnight Chloe. Sweet dreams,” he whispered before relaxing and slowly drifting off to sleep.

Chloe was still awake as he fell asleep and she quietly lifted herself up and looked at Nathanaël. He was facing her and his eyes were closed.

“Goodnight Nathanaël. Thank you for everything. Sweet dreams,” she whispered before planting a kiss on his forehead.

With her heart racing, Chloe fell asleep and dreamed of panini’s, paintings and the red-head boy ,who she was slowly starting to develop feelings for. 

[espanakatie-blog]

21 marzo

I came back from my quick trip to Paris yesterday and I had a blast! 

On our way there, we met some super cool guys from the U.K. that worked in film in London. They made the decision to travel more than they work, so they were in Sevilla for a few days. We ate with them in the airport, where we exchanged information because one of them has a birthday in May around the time we end school. They invited us to London to celebrate his birthday and they’d show us around London as locals, making sure we knew their offer was genuine and not just a “hey well if you’re ever in London!” type of deal. If only I had the money *long sigh of sadness that clearly states that I love London and would love to see it with locals.* 

We had to part ways with our new friends, and we flew into Beauvais (one and a half hours outside of Paris... thanks Ryanair) so by the time we got into Paris it was about 6 PM, then a half hour commute to our hostel, and then when we settled in, it was about 7. We went to Musee de (du? I will never remember because Spanish so nicely only has de) Louvre and saw the Mona Lisa. I would love to spend a whole day there, looking at all the art. We really only got an hour there because even though they’re open until TEN they start closing exhibits at 9:30 which I understand but it was also frustrating. However, after 6 PM on Fridays it is free for people under 26, which is why went despite such little time.

When we got back to the hostel, I took time to research the history of the landmarks we planned to visit the next day so that I could be the tour guide for my roommates, giving them a history lesson throughout Paris.

The next day we started bright (more like grey/cloudy) and early at Arc de Triomphe. On the way there, we came across a cute bakery where I bought 10 french macarons. I decided to eat a macaron at everywhere we went to that day (see instagram post here) and accidentally matched the color of my macaron to the color of every monument we went. After the Arc de Triomphe, we walked to the Eiffel Tower. We got stopped by some women who asked if we spoke English, and I stupidly didn’t pretend to speak another language. Seriously, I need to learn how to say “I don’t speak English” in some obscure, uncommon language like Romanian or Serbian. Maybe Georgian. They were definitely scammers, asking us to donate for a fund for deaf children. We told them we didn’t have cash and she spit at us. They only were asking English speakers (so tourists) and the “money” other people on her donating list had “given” were all written in the same handwriting, with 20 euros donated. *Donald Trump saying “fake news” voice* FAKE CHARITY. Sad! And the night before, my roommates and I made room on the sidewalk so a man could pass us, but despite having more than enough room, he shook his bags at us to gesture that we needed to move more. I love Parisians :-). We also saw prostitutes! Full boobs and all out. It was like a Free the Nipple movement, but in the cold. Let me make it clear that while I had weird and rude experiences with Parisians, I love their city.

I am kind of irritated with people who have told me that Paris is dirty and gross, because it is a city. People who think this probably grew up in a suburb or rural area where they aren’t used to what happens when millions of people live in one place. I mean, I’m from Rio Rancho. Suburbia, I know. But I acknowledge that cities will have metro stations that smell a bit like pee. That there will be rude locals who don’t have time for tourists. It’s all a part of the experience. The metro is old, sure. But so is Paris! There aren’t a lot of elevators. The buildings are much older than elevators! Learn it. Accept it. Love the nice butt and legs all the stairs will give you. Get over it.

Anyway, we took the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower where I was severely lacking enough layers to face the wind. I am forever grateful one of my roommates let me borrow her blanket scarf in Paris this weekend because without it I would have been frozen. The view was great, although a little foggy. Someday when I’m rich I’ll eat a meal in the restaurants in the Eiffel Tower and I’ll enjoy a glass of champagne at the top.

After the Eiffel Tower, we walked to Jardin du (de? Seriously, what the heck even is French???) Luxembourg. My roommate and I split a Nutella crepe and I wish we had just eaten crepes everywhere. Cheap. Easy. Delicious. And French!

Lastly, we went to Notre Dame. If I accidentally type Norte Dame, forgive my Spanish. We didn’t get to go inside, but the architecture from just the outside was beautiful. I’m constantly blown away by the amount of effort that goes into the architecture of buildings in Europe, contrary to New Mexico where adobe (or adobe-look alikes) reign supreme. Adobe is cute and all, but are there statues carved into the walls? Are there paintings on canvases bigger than my room covering the walls? No. While adobe feels like home to me, I wish American buildings had the same spunk that European buildings do.

We got back to the hostel to rest up for a bit and then went to dinner with someone I’ve been calling my cousin for simplicity’s sake. She’s technically my mom’s step-cousin’s daughter. But cousin is much more simple. Her name is Clara, and she goes to school at the American University of Paris. My roommates and I ate dinner with her and then hung out at her apartment for a little bit before heading back to the hostel. We crashed out and HARD.

The next morning we had plans to take a river boat cruise down the Seine but we agreed that we were way to tired to even move. As much as I wish I could’ve fought through my exhaustion, I had done what most people do over the course of a few days in Paris in less than 24 hours. I feel like I had the right to be absolutely worn out.

On the bus ride back to the Beauvais airport, we met a family visiting their son (who is also studying in Sevilla!!! different school though) and they took a quick trip to Paris also. They were super fun and from North Carolina, so they loved that I’ve been there several times. The mom was so excited to talk about how it snowed in Charlotte but not Winston-Salem. Her daughter was 15 and wasn’t thrilled that she was required to write a journal for school about her time in Europe, so when I mentioned that I have journals that I love going back and reading about my student ambassador trips I could feel her mom’s thankfulness that I said the journal is worth writing. My 14 year old thoughts on my trip to the British Isles make me smile, my 15 year old drawings of my friends and I doing yoga on a ferry between Naples and Sicily make me reminisce fondly, and my 16 year old memories of somehow becoming the designated tampon teacher for girls who had never used one before Costa Rica but needed to before a rafting or surfing lesson CRACK ME UP. Back to the family, needless to say, that mom and I got along well.

This upcoming weekend I am going to Morocco and weather-permitting, I’M GOING TO RIDE A CAMEL ON THE BEACH! I am most excited for Morocco. For reasons I don’t remember, my favorite place when I was seven at Disney Epcot was Morocco, and I’ve wanted to go ever since. We will have a traditional Moroccan dinner Saturday night and my stomach cannot wait for all the couscous I am about to consume. Bless up.

[artistclock]

WHEN IT WILL BE ME?

By: Cherry Mae Parohinog

Be the best or be nothing at all. Remember that no one remembers the second best or the rest for that matter. Aim for the top place. Always.

I had it in my head that individuals were constantly looking for attention and a good reputation. We lived for their compliments. Who doesn't like to be complimented? One positive word from you, they can live for a day. One positive sentence forms you, then they can build an altar and worship you. They can even kiss your feet.

"Our school's pride! Let us give Mr. Merritt a standing ovation! The well-known art competition was held in Manila. And, of course, congrats to Ms. Hernandez on her second-place finish. Thank you very much! Mr. Merritt, top one!”

Roaring applause was given by the crowd to us and especially to him. I don’t know if it’s because he’s drop-dead gorgeous or because he won. I bet my life, it’s the former.

When my name was called, I couldn't help but notice the host's low tone. See, second place means nothing. I also stood up and clapped. I didn't clap because I wanted to; I clapped because it was my initial inclination, and it was required by the program. And I should, because I'm one of the winners!

“Congratulations, Ms. Hernandez. Your arts are good and getting better.” The host mumbled to me and smiled with her lips pursed.

Comparative versus superlative adjective, I see.

Her words could no longer be heard due to the great weakness of her voice and the crowd’s loudness. I accept her compliment with a nod of my head. It would have been lovely to hear her praises, but they didn't last long in my ears. Her words sound rehearsed.

“Thank you, Ma’am.” I return the smile she gave to me.

Another medal and trophy to be cover with dust.

James Austin Merritt, the winner, in his custom-tailored tux from the back of the host, sashaying his way to us. His chiseled arms are highlighted by his serge coat. His tousled hair, crimson lips, flushed cheeks, and metal timepiece. His deportment now matched his brusqueness and arrogance so well. He looks expensive and extremely confident.

“I know I mentioned it before, but let me congratulate you again,” he says as he clears his throat. “Congratulations, Ms. Olivia,” He's in top form, with his cheeky smile on his face, and his right palms outstretched in front of me, indicating that I should take it.

This is the type of guy I should avoid.

“You, too, Mr. Merritt. You brought the school’s name again. I’m so honored to join you in that dazzling journey we had in Manila. You’re the best companion.” I clasped his hand in mine and smiled at him.

The words taste so wrong on my tongue. I can even taste the bitterness.

“You two did an outstanding job. And this handsome prodigy, oh, darling, make us prouder,” the host taps his right cheek. She has the look of a proud mother. I almost puked when I saw how sweet it was.

He turns his face toward me, allowing me to get a good look at his aristocratic features. “Not at all, Ma'am. Olivia is here, and she is the best at everything. As with anything! Did you happen to notice what she used in the competition? She used oil paint as well as poster paint! The beauty of her artwork is breathtaking! I'm lost for words to describe how stunning and talented she is. I was startled and mesmerized as I stared at her. I-I'm referring to her painting,” His prominent cheekbones turning a slight shade of red.

I stifle a little chuckle. I'd like to believe him. His comments, despite the oozing tone of sarcasm and stupidity, ring true in my ears. I only hope Mrs. Ronald, the host, agrees with us, although I doubt it. Her sour expression tells me so.

My hands are itching to hit him - no, beat him! Hmm… maybe later, Mr. Merritt.

“What exactly are you saying, Mr. Merritt? You won, which implies you're the best. What would happen to our department if you weren't there? A strong and confident man. Your artistic prowess is out of this world,” she shook her head, wanting to put a stop to the conversation.

Mrs. Roland may believe that a man has all the power, but this is not the case. I wholeheartedly disagree. I believe that women can accomplish just as much as men.

It appears to me that I am not as important as him and that I was only placed there to fill the gap. My achievement and trophy mean nothing to them.

“No, no, Ma’am. She’s also a winner in the competition too. I was so amazed at how good she was that I was ready to go home crying that day,” He shoves his hands in his pockets and glances over me. His left dimples popping out.

“Alright, Austin, if you say so. I'll leave you two alone now. I’ll just talk to someone on the other side.” She gracefully turns her back on us. Her sour expression remained.

“What was the point of that?” You want to court me?” My arms are folded on my chest.

His mouth fell open, and his brown eyes were as large as saucers and almost out of their sockets. He has a peculiar appearance. I nearly roll on the carpet!

“No. Never, Miss, but you can thank me though. And then I'll say, 'Welcome, Olivia.' How does that sound?”

I groan. As I looked at him, I wondered how someone could be so dumb.

“I appreciate your kind words, Mister. Hearing that made my day.” I mock him by pressing my palm to my chest and bowing slightly.

He mumbles an expletive under his breath. “Stop dissing me, please. The competition ended well and unbiasedly. And are we already friends, or am I imagining things? But for me, we’re already friends. We can help each other. We can also create beautiful artwork. What do you think?” He wiggles his eyebrow. As a result, he is quite attractive; otherwise, he would resemble Mr. Bean.

“No, we're not friends, and we never will be. Well, unless you are the firm believer of ‘keep your friends close but keep your enemies closer, then we can be friends,” I shrug my shoulder acting as a cool kid. I just need myself and no more.

His stares are so intense that I almost cringe.

“If that’s what you want, then fine. We’re enemies now.”

Perhaps it is true that when the universe aligns, there is a force that allows two opposing things to become one.

I let him see every inch of my heart.

On the floor was a jumble of canvases, paintbrushes, and paint colors. Images of hazy landscape sceneries, abstract paintings, and random people's portraits are hung, while some are simply lying against the wall. I watched him in the corner as he was serious about what he was doing. It’s like he’s the only one in the room and his painting is the most important thing in the world. His hand seems to be dancing to a rhythm that only he can hear. The veins in his arms protruded when the paintbrush kissed the canvas. His brow wrinkled and his crimson lips parted slightly. It's amazing to look at him in such a way that you wouldn't believe he's puerile and truant.

Let’s make art together. No rivalry between us.

His words break the high sturdy wall I built for anyone to protect myself.

“I'm hungry,” I said, although I'm not. All I want is for him to pay attention to me as well.

“Then, eat. I don't have your mouth,” he says. He didn't even look at me. He's really serious about what he's doing.

“You’re arts is romantically beautiful, Austin. It never fails to amaze me. I want to make you a statue,”

“Really? That's very thoughtful of you, Olivia. Thank you for your backhanded compliments. It's much appreciated. And I think... I'm going to cry. Could you please hand me a tissue?” He retorted.

Oh, God! Give me more patience.

Dropping my head back against my chair and dragging my breath through my nose. I prop my right elbow on the armrest and lean my head against my hand.

“Have you read what was posted in the bulletin? They’ll have competition again. Maybe you'd like to join?” Now he's focused on me and telling me something else. His words were vague in my ears. In a trance, I'm staring at a line of ants scurrying around the wall. What if I lose once more? A second-place finisher again? I don't want to lose. For once, I'd want to be on top. No, I always want to be at the top. No one but myself! The best of the rest!

I'm a sad little girl who craves attention and longs to escape reality. My anxiety began to attack.

I recall my father yelling at me, "I won't look at your trashy trophy, and I'm not proud!" He claimed that painting is not a career and that I cannot earn a living from it. The benefit here is that dad let me choose the course I wanted, which is why I chose fine arts, but how could this freedom feel so lonely?

He spews his venom at me for not being the best. I held my tongue and waited until he was satisfied with the damage. I can't blame him; he's one of the most competitive people I've ever met. He was distraught. It’s like I’m trying to hold hot water in my bare hands. So cruel. He has such a terrible opinion of me. I value the arts in all of their forms.

I believe in the power of words and their ability to affect people. They have the power to make or break you. They can even kill you.

“You’re worthless! You deserved everything bad that happened to you! All the hate! Why won’t you just die?!” I screamed as I stood in front of the mirror, pointing to myself.

And he made me feel unloved and unworthy.

I was immersed in thought when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

He looks at me as if he’s reading my mind and my soul, “Hey, I got you now. You’re doing your absolute best. Stop trying to control everything around you. Stop it. Stop thinking about the outcome of every situation, just enjoy the moment. Don’t be hard on yourself, Olivia.” His tone is gentle.

“If everyone turns their back on you, then look at me. I’m your number one fan, remember? I hope that’s enough.” He mumbled.

In response, I gave him my genuine smile.

People have asked me if I’m okay with placing second or third, and I’ve always said yes. That's the response they're looking for. They don't care about me. They simply want to pique their interest. That's all there is to it. That's why, in the end, you're the only one left in the dark, bruised, and defeated.  You didn't get the kind of attention you were hoping for. Who would want to hear from someone like me? Nobody knows who I am. This is how the world works

Jesus! I sound like a petulant child.

The afternoon zephyr gently ruffled my hair a little. I'm seated in my school uniform on the far side of the school's reading sanctuary section's concrete gazebo, surrounded by trees whose leaves are already falling and scattering on the sidewalk. It's a peaceful spot. The sound of the page of the book I’ am reading hurt the silence of the surroundings.

It tells the story of a wise man who can't seem to find himself. He was enslaved to the standard that society and his family imposed on him. Because of his intelligence, he lacked a friend. His diary was his lone confidante. In this journal, he writes down all of his thoughts and the words that are stuck in his head.

Why do I have an affinity towards him? Perhaps because we are in a similar situation. I recognize myself in him and can relate to him. If he utilized a pen and paper to write down what was going through his mind. In turn, I used a paintbrush and a canvas to express my feelings and resentments in life.

I was so engrossed in my daydream that I didn't notice the mighty Austin lounging coolly against the jamb of the gazebo, hands in his pockets, and chewing his bubble gum, which he even inflated and chewed again. Yes, he is sometimes gross. He chuckles awkwardly at me and takes the chocolate cupcake from his pocket. He uses his teeth to peel it off.

“I wish you a very happy birthday, Olivia. And I'm sorry I won't be singing you a happy birthday song. Now, Olivia, make a wish.”

I lock my gaze on him. I consider myself extremely blessed to have him. I close my eyes and whisper to the wind.

“Break those shackles, and watch me fly.”

My room opens with a loud bang, waking me up. I could see his familiar shape in my hazy eyes.

“Join the contest and show me what you've got.” He spoke it loudly and authoritatively. My father's actions surprised me. Isn't that the truth? I heard it very clear. My nails dug into the palms of my hands so deeply.

Take the risk or lose the chance. I'd go with the former, despite my reservations.

I shield my face from the light with my right hand. He, too, squints from the sun. I'm not sure why we decided to go for a walk in the middle of the day. I'm perspiring, and his neck is flushed. He unlocked the door for me when we arrived at the school's art studio. The door is excessively large and heavy. To open it, he must use all of his strength.

“How come this old door won't let a handsome man like me in? If this door is a woman, I'd say she's just trying to get my attention.” He winks at me as he turns to face me.

This man!

I take a seat next to him and maintain a comfortable distance between us. We're currently practicing. The crickets could be heard all around us.

To be honest, I had lost track of what made me happy. I've run out of ideas, motivation, and energy. I didn't have anything to look forward to. I close my eyes tightly.

“Yes, you’re doing it right. Stroke it slowly. Don’t get frustrated,”

“Everything is mediocre,” I scream, hurling the paintbrush. He took it and returned it to me.

“Slow progress is better than no progress at all, Olivia,”

“Easy for you to say. You’re famous. You’re so good. No, you’re the best! The greatest! Everyone loves you. And me, I’ am no one. A good-for-nothing daughter. Tell me… when it will be me?”

He blinks several times. Because of his heavy breathing, I notice his shoulders bouncing up. He's chewing his lower lip. In his eyes, I can feel his exasperation and sorrow. He reaches for my face and gently caresses my cheek.

“You know what, I think I should call it quits. My dreams are shattered all around me. From the start, everything is wrong. I can't function properly,” I grumble. I'm furious at myself.

I'm losing control of everything. I'm losing interest in things that used to excite me. It’s like I'm no longer a part of anything. My cheeks are flushed with tears.

“If that’s wrong, then I don’t want to be right. And don’t compare your artworks to mine, or everyone, that’s just deadly. Everyone has their uniqueness. You are your person,” he whispers.

Despite his words, I am still empty. I'm desperate to get this emotion out of my system.

“It isn't that simple.”

The opinions of those around us have an impact on how we perceive ourselves. Austin, on the other hand, is arrogant, harsh, and blunt, but he can be a dark knight in sparkling armor. He sees right through people. He lives his life to the fullest.

I stare out the window. The car was moving so fast that the trees we were passing through swiftly vanished from my vision. I'm leaning against to it. I believe we are all dissatisfied individuals. We wish for something that we don't have. We envy people and things in various ways and on various levels. We wish to be that person and live their life. We desire things to satisfy ourselves. People are usually asking for something good, yet they are frequently asking for something bad. We just don't notice it, or if we do, we're too afraid to acknowledge it. People are also cynical.

I'm extremely nervous right now. Inside, my toes wiggled into my shoes. I can even hear my heartbeat in my ears and a strong throb against my skull. I'm feeling nauseous. My heartbeat quickened as fear swelled in my chest. Austin, on the other hand, appears to be a lost child at the playground. His eyes are shining with enthusiasm.

Today is the competition day. I used to think of him as my enemy, my tough opponent. But suddenly things are different.

“I'm drowning in anxiety and fear. Who wants to swim with me?” I asked him. We were in the park at the time. I'm sitting on the concrete bench, watching the kids play.

“Me. I can even bring some colorful floaters. You want that?” he answered me while licking his lollipop.

I lift my eyes and stare at him. He was looking at a large artwork in front of us, arms akimbo. He has a carefree smile on his face.

“This is it! The world has to be ready. We are here now, ready to conquer them,” He has a devilish grin on his face.

"Don't live too much in our head, Olivia. This time you are not alone,” He added, and continued watching the artwork, "I will not allow you."

The overthinking sucks that drove me to do some irrational things, as well as my anxiety, which accompanies me around and feeds my fear, are still here. Now all I have to do is revalue myself to forgive and love myself better. I'm going to improve with time.

And he’s with me now. We are here now. This is our now. This is the reality.

“And Olivia, it’s always been you.”

[thekelseyproject]

8.1 Monday Night

I can’t do this,” I whimpered to the mirror as every single blemish and imperfection flashed like angry neon signs. I mean, had he ever actually looked at me? It didn’t seem like someone with functional eyesight could look past all of…this.

I turned and stared forlornly at the pile of clothes on my bed. Matt had taken it upon himself to plan our date tonight, but he was being infuriatingly mysterious about his plans, no matter how beggy my texts had become. Should I dress up? Dress down? Were we actually going to walk on the beach, and should I wear a wrap? Was he serious about the spaghetti? Because I didn’t want to wear my favorite white blouse if he was and then drop the inevitable meatball onto my chest. Where were we going?!

I finally settled on a sort of business-casual dress, tights, a light jacket, and a pair of comfortable flats. There, I thought, staring at myself in the mirror, straining to like how I looked. I almost succeeded, too.

Until Leslie walked in, with her perfect hair and flawless skin, glistening with sweat—seriously, only Leslie could look good after a vigorous workout routine. I recalled what Matt said that morning about how I shouldn’t worry about any lingering feelings on that front. Sure, that’s what he says now, but has he ever looked at her? How could I compete???

She immediately lit up when she noticed me. “Wow, look at you!” she cried, clearly ecstatic by the fact that for once I wasn’t wearing jeans. “First date, huh?”

I nodded, straining a smile to mask my anxiety. I chewed my lip as she kicked off her shoes and began to undress. “Hey, Lez, can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” she called over her shoulder.

“Where did you guys go on your first date?”

She paused and turned to me with raised eyebrows.

“Just so I can know whether to be mad at him if he��you know—takes me to the same place.”

She smiled sweetly, that slightly condescending smile she reserves for me when she thinks I said something immature. It was annoying: There were only three years between us, yet she treated me like I was a freshman in high school, not college. “Oh, Kelsey, you don’t have to worry about me. Matt and I are ancient history.” She turned away again.

I rolled my eyes. “I know, but—I just want to know what to expect. Does he go big? Or is he super casual, like dinner and a movie?”

“I don’t know. With you, it’s different. He’s known you for years, and he’s liked you for awhile.”

“Wait—” I began, but she kept talking.

“We’d only known each other about a day when we first went out. I went up to him on a Friday during freshman English.”

I suppressed a growl as I asked loudly, “You knew? That he liked me?”

She twisted back to me, looking caught. “Y-Yes,” she said slowly, guiltily.

“And you just left me stewing for a week, thinking he hated me?” I almost yelled.

“He asked me not to say anything!” she pleaded.

“Where did you guys go?” I demanded again. Why was she skirting this answer?

She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Look, he asked me not to say anything to you. A long time before you guys—before you kissed him, okay?”

“He told you?” I gasped, flabbergasted.

“He didn’t tell me, I asked. It was obvious! Not as obvious as you were, but… When he invited you to my bonfire? Do you think he’d do that for just any old roommate of mine?”

Yes, because he’s a nice guy. Even if we hadn’t known each other, he might have seen me, all sad and pathetic and alone, and invited me anyway. I’d always assumed his invitation had been more out of pity than any kind of affection for me, anyhow. But I wasn’t going to let Leslie off the hook for not cluing me into the fact that I was wrong. “Whatever,” I grunted flatly, grabbing my purse and heading for the door.

“Kelsey,” she called desperately.

I paused, my hand on the knob. She couldn't stand having someone mad at her.

“We went to dinner and a movie. That was it.”

I was almost disappointed. “That’s it?”

She bit her lip and nodded.

“So what’s the big deal?” I groaned incredulously. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

She glanced away. “I invited him up afterwards.”

“So?”

Now she looked at me pointedly, incredulous that I could be that slow. “For coffee.”

I finally caught her drift, and my cheeks flamed. “Oh.”

“It was, like, a month after he’d broken up with Caroline. I didn’t know—I didn’t know what had happened. I didn’t know about the baby they’d lost.” Leslie’s voice cracked on the word baby. “I was just looking for a hookup, and I thought he was hot. But as you know…Matt’s not a hookup kind of guy.”

“He turned you down,” I surmised, nursing a tiny swell of happiness at the idea that Leslie didn’t get everything she wanted.

She nodded. “Yeah. We made out for a little while, but as soon as I hinted that I wanted more, he pulled away. It was still fresh for him. He was still in pain, after everything… I made him tea and he told me about it. We’ve been best friends ever since.”

I listened to this with a scowl, but I was also relieved to hear with absolute certainty that nothing more than a brief attraction had ever passed between them.

“I’m sorry, I just thought maybe you wouldn’t want to know that once upon a time I tried to sleep with your boyfriend.”

“Matt’s not my boyfriend,” I countered flatly, the word uncomfortable and foreign in my mouth.

Leslie’s Kelsey smile was back. “Oh come on, you don’t actually believe that, do you?”

Something about her certainty made the pterodactyls alight again in my stomach. “I guess I’ll find out tonight,” I said in a wavering voice.

She checked the time. “You said six, right? You better get going. And just so you know—I’m staying at Jake’s again tonight. If you guys want to come back here—”

“Yeah, like that’ll happen,” I laughed without humor. “Matt’s not a hookup kind of guy, remember?” Even if he was, it still wouldn’t happen, because I wasn’t a hookup kind of girl.

She cocked her head amusedly. “You would be far from a hookup.”

I turned to leave so she wouldn’t see my rosy cheeks. “Oh God. Here I go.”

“Good luck!” she called after me.

He was perched on the hood of his car, staring intently at his wringing hands, so my approach went unnoticed. I took this moment to scrutinize his outfit, trying to deduce what his plans were. He looked extraordinarily handsome in jeans and a form-fitting vest—formal, but not. I should be okay, I decided. That was how I’d ended up—formal, but not.

Matt scrambled to his feet when he saw me and smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said, and blushed for some unintelligible reason. I found it bizarrely hard to look at him while he was looking at me.

His eyes travelled down my dress. “You look nice,” he said.

I couldn’t stop myself from latching onto that word: Nice. Did I just look nice? Why not pretty, or beautiful? If he was my boyfriend—and that was a pretty big if; one night of making out does not automatically entail a relationship—wasn’t it his job to tell me I looked pretty? And yet the only descriptive word that occurred to him was “nice.” I knew I was adding subtext where there was none, but I couldn’t let it go.

He leaned down to kiss me, seemed to think better of it, and pecked me on the cheek at the last second (I failed to let that go, too). He opened the car door for me.

“Thanks. You too.”

Thanks. You too?! What was this, a blind date? This was the man who shared my bed just twelve hours ago! I wanted to kick myself. He looked better than nice. He always looked better than nice. I couldn’t think of a time when I didn’t find him absolutely gorgeous. You too was the best I could come up with? I immediately forgave him for “nice.”

“You’re late,” Matt observed teasingly as he climbed behind the wheel.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I was talking to Leslie.” What is wrong with me? WHY WOULD I JUST VOLUNTEER THAT INFORMATION?

“Not about me, I hope,” he quipped, grinning nervously at me.

I pretended I hadn’t heard this and gazed out the window.

His grin wilted. “Crap. What did she say?”

“Nothing,” I lied automatically.

He clearly didn’t believe me, but he didn’t press the issue. “How was work?” he asked.

“Fine.”

Silence.

Why is this so weird? I struggled to think of a single topic of conversation, but I only drew blanks. It was like our night together had wiped years of friendship from existence. We were total strangers on a blind date.

The pair of us rode in awkward silence until at last he parked behind a restaurant, cut the engine, and smiled sheepishly at me. “Part one,” he declared anxiously.

“Cool,” I commented blandly.

“It’s the only place I could find that serves kangaroo,” he explained, flushing bright red.

“What on earth made you think I’d want to eat a kangaroo?” I demanded, gaping at him.

“Not kangaroo specifically,” he appended, turning an even deeper red. “I mean…Melbourne, you know?”

It dawned on me that he was trying to pay homage to our vacation six years ago, allegedly when he realized I was more to him than just Isaac’s weird little sister. “Oh,” I gasped, and added, genuinely this time, “cool!”

Matt smiled—or possibly winced—and got out, once again darting around the nose of his car to open my door for me before I could move an inch. I wanted to tell him to stop with the strangely chivalrous gestures, but things were weird enough. I didn’t want to add to his embarrassment.

We walked down an alley with a mile of space between us, Matt deliberately slowing his pace so I could keep up. My knee still ached, but it was a huge improvement over last night. It also helped that I’d popped some ibuprofen before getting dressed in case the beach thing did happen.

“I’ve never been here before,” he said conversationally, holding the door open for me, “so I have no idea what to expect.”

My first impression: loud and expensive. This place was sleek and high-end, with black, white, and gold décor. The shiny marble walls and floor amplified the soft rock and pop fusion blaring from the speakers placed near the ceiling. Modern paint-spattered canvases were hung here and there to add a pop of color.

Everything was so shiny and stylish; I felt like a hobo walking into Saks Fifth Avenue.

“Can we even afford this place?” I asked under my breath.

“I’ll put it on my credit card,” he muttered, but I could tell he was caught off guard by the grandeur. I decided then and there that, though it might cost me a week’s worth of wages, I’d pay for my own meal.

We were seated across from each other in the back of the restaurant right beneath a speaker, so the reverberating music overpowered any normal conversation. I ordered a (free) glass of water and he got a Diet Coke. I postponed any more chitchat by feigning fascination with the menu, but even this only lasted until we ordered (chicken—the only dishes under $30). As the waiter walked away with my only diversion, Matt smiled apprehensively at me.

I returned his smile with what I hoped was a reassuring grin. “So what’s Part Two?” I yelled in my most conversational tone. “What have you got in store?”

“There’s a theme,” he shouted cryptically.

“Oh, are we attending my brother’s wedding later?” I teased, staring at the woodgrain on the table. It looked like it was moving, making me feel sick; my heart began to pound as my anxiety skyrocketed. I glanced up at him to stop the illusion.

“Not quite,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “Think a little more fun.”

“A watch shop?”

“You’re lukewarm.”

I replayed those days in my head and opened my mouth to answer, but just then, his phone vibrated to life. He cringed as he checked the ID. “It’s Mom. She told me she’d call when she was discharged.” Matt looked up at me, awaiting permission.

“Go ahead,” I sighed, and he scrambled away in search of a quieter area. I closed my eyes as my heart raced in my chest, the music throbbing in my head, my stomach knotting with dark panic as though I’d tilted back in my chair and nearly lost my balance. I put my head down on my forearms, trying to tune out the clatter of the restaurant and the obnoxious music blaring right overhead.

“Kelsey?” I heard as he returned from his call. “Are you okay?”

I swallowed, scared to open my mouth. I lifted my head just enough to shake it.

“What’s wrong?” he asked in alarm.

I wanted to cry. Why here? Why now? I kept my eyes squeezed closed, willing the walls to stop spinning. “Roller coaster,” I managed at last.

“Roller coaster?” he repeated in bewilderment.

I swallowed hard and tried a word he’d understand: “Migraine.”

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Do you want to go home?”

“Yeah,” I said through a constricted sob. Our first date. I ruin everything. I barely managed to get to my feet and teetered precariously; it felt like my brains were sloshing around in my skull. Matt slapped a few dollar bills on the table to pay for our drinks, grabbed my elbow, and steadied me.

“Are you okay to walk?” he said with concern.

“Let me lean on you,” I whimpered, clutching him to me, squeezing his arm tightly. He was the only thing that wasn’t rocking to and fro. He guided me through the restaurant as I staggered between the tables like a drunken sailor who'd lost her sea legs.

I made him stop by the hostess’s counter and I stumbled over to the umbrella stand, where I tore off one of those plastic bags for when it rains and you don’t want your umbrella to drip everywhere. “Just in case,” I mumbled apologetically.

“In case what?”

“Just get me to the car.”

He did as I asked, taking me by both shoulders and aiming me at the car. We’d just pulled into traffic when a violent wave of nausea forced my lunch back up. I vomited into the umbrella bag, my wet eyes still squeezed tight as the ground tilted and swayed.

“Oh,” Matt said with dawning comprehension as he made a right.

“I’m sorry,” I moaned, trembling all over.

“Stop apologizing,” he growled. “Let’s just get you home.”

I was covered in a cold sheen of sweat now, crying helplessly as my world continued to roll beneath me.

“Does it help if I drive faster or slower?” he asked helpfully, eyes darting between me and the road.

“No,” I groaned.

We were only a fifteen-minute drive from campus, but it felt more like an hour as I sat in the passenger seat, retching every couple of minutes as Matt attempted to drive steadily and smoothly to no avail. Even at stoplights, the ground felt like it was pitching beneath me. I threw up twice more during that interminable ride.

At last, we pulled up in front of my dorm, but I barely noticed—I thought we were still moving. By now I was afraid to walk on my own, and he wouldn’t hear of letting me go by myself anyway. He took my arm again and guided me into the lobby.

Upstairs, I allowed him to root through my purse for the keys to my room. He pushed open the door and I made a mad, unsteady dash for the bathroom.

I collapsed onto the tile floor as my head swam and the floor roiled, planting my head on my arms over the commode.

That was when I noticed—

With a sense of impending doom every girl can sympathize with, I got to my feet and pulled down my underwear, sinking onto the toilet in horror. A great red splotch, right down the middle.

It explained a lot, actually.

I closed my eyes and waited for the world to settle down, even just a little, before I climbed once more to my feet and rummaged for a tampon under the sink. “Sheet.”

“Kelsey?” I heard on the other side of the door. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

I desperately shoved aside spare bottles of conditioner and hand soap and body wash and lotion and razors. Nothing so much as a panty liner. How did we let this happen?!

“Kelsey,” Matt called again when I didn’t answer.

“Bring me my purse,” I called weakly, holding out one last hope.

“Your purse?”

“Yes!” Why couldn’t he just do it?

I cracked open the door and took it from him and unzipped the inner pocket where I kept my spare pads and—

“Sheet.”

“Kelsey?” He was still standing right outside the door.

I shut my eyes tight, tears running down my cheeks as I powered through the urge to vomit again. Finally, I swallowed and came to a difficult decision. “Matt, I’m sorry, but I’m gonna need you to do me a very personal favor.”

“Anything,” he promised through the door.

You’re going to regret that. I took a deep breath. “I need you to go to the drug store and buy some tampons.”

“What kind?”

I was so shocked I didn’t answer right away. Really? No self-conscious protests, no pathetic whining about how embarrassing it is for a guy to buy tampons? I got my first period when I was twelve while Mom was pulling a double shift at the hospital. When I confessed I needed pads, Dad and Isaac had acted as though I'd requested they lop off their right hands and eat them. (Ultimately Dad handed me a ten and made me buy them myself while he picked out a bag of chips, a soda, and a cheap screwdriver for some reason.) So the fact that Matt took this news without complaint was completely astonishing to me.

“Regular is fine.” I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation ON OUR FIRST DATE.

“Anything else?”

“Uh-uh.” I listened for the door to close behind him. When I was certain that I was alone, I toppled back into the room and collected a bottle of Excedrin, some PJs, a t-shirt, and clean underwear and darted back into the bathroom.

Despite my unbalanced, nauseated state, I was able to change without puking again. My head swimming and my stomach churning and my uterus whining, I hunkered down on the toilet and awaited my savior, head in my arms.

I waited about twenty minutes before I heard the door open.

“Kels?” he called softly. “How are you doing?”

“Still dizzy,” I answered from the toilet. The bathroom doorknob turned. “Don’t!” I sobbed.

“I’m not,” he replied patiently, cracking open the door. A box of tampons slid across the floor and tapped my foot, and the door closed again. “Tell me I have good aim.”

I smiled through my anguish and wiped my eyes. “Spot on.” He’d even gotten my favorite brand. What a guy.

I finally exited the bathroom a couple minutes later, took two steps into my room, and tipped into bed. I squeezed my eyes shut as my bed swayed to and fro. I tried to get comfortable, but every movement, no matter how minute, set it off again. I whimpered and curled into a ball and drifted off to a restless sleep.

The moon was rising when I rolled over and returned to the land of consciousness. Miraculously, my bed felt less like a raft on a stormy sea and more like a wonderfully solid, motionless rock. I opened one eye and zeroed in on the boy sitting at my desk, reading a book by dim lamplight.

“You're still here.”

He didn't look up from the page as he retorted, “And you keep saying that.” A pause as he finished the paragraph he was on, then he glanced up at me and smiled. “Well?”

I stretched and sat up, waiting for the vertigo to return, but everything was gloriously still. I felt lightheaded and ravenous, but otherwise back to normal. “Still as a statue.”

“Glad to hear it!” He hopped to his feet and joined me on the bed, settling startlingly close to me. It felt strange but oddly right. My skin tingled where his leg touched mine, and my heart fluttered at his closeness.

“What time is it?” I asked before he had a chance to notice the anxiety on my flushed face. But for once in my life, it was good anxiety, like a little kid on Christmas Eve, wondering what happiness was in store for her.

“A little after eleven.”

I stared at my feet guiltily. “I ruined your whole evening.”

“Shut up, you didn’t ruin anything,” he snapped impatiently.

“I ruined our first date,” I whispered pathetically.

Matt shook his head exasperatedly but let it go. “There’s always next time.” He peered dubiously at me from the corners of his eyes. “Are you done puking?”

“I think so,” I answered uncertainly. “I used to get carsick when I was little, and that’s what this felt like.”

“Except you weren’t in a car.”

“No.”

“At the restaurant…you said ‘roller coaster.’”

“That’s what it feels like,” I said, flashing back to that moment and feeling queasy. “Especially in the car. I felt like you were driving up walls. Even when I was still, everything was still moving.”

“Yuck,” he commented with feeling.

“I think it’s a menstrual thing,” I added, embarrassed to be talking about my monthlies with Matt. “I was on my period the last time this happened.”

“Ah,” he said knowingly as though the awkwardness of the topic was all in my head. “Jamie used to get migraines, too.” There was a pause as we wondered what happened next. It was late, our “date” was over, and I was a menstruating mess.

“You hungry?” he asked suddenly.

I contemplated my empty stomach. “Starving—”

No sooner had I answered than he shoved a package into my hands.

“Oreos?” I hastily ripped them open and devoured one.

“Thought you might want something to munch on when you felt better.” He scooted back so he was against the wall, and curled up there. I stared at him for a moment, reading his body language. Perhaps our date wasn’t over. He patted the mattress next to him, smirking enticingly.

“Hold that thought,” I blurted, and bounded into the bathroom. I scrubbed my face and neck, brushed my teeth, tied back my hair, and spritzed my neck with a tiny puff of body spray. I didn’t want him to kiss me—although I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t—and be reminded of the bodily fluids that had violently spewed out of me just a few hours ago.

When I came out, he was propping my laptop on my dresser. He threw me an exasperated look as I sank onto my bed. “What kind of twenty-first century college kid doesn’t have a TV?”

I shrugged. “I told my parents not to bother, because I only ever watch Netflix, and Leslie’s never here to watch anything.”

“Lot of good that’s doing us,” he sighed. “What are you watching right now?”

His question caught me in the middle of another Oreo. I chewed and swallowed. “I just started my gazillionth rewatch of Firefly.”

“Oh. What’s that about?”

When I didn’t respond, he twisted around to find my jaw unhinged in abject horror. “What?” he asked with a bewildered shrug.

“You’ve never seen Firefly?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“You’ve never seen Firefly?”

“No.”

“How can you have never seen Firefly?”

He shrugged again.

I had to look away from him, gripping my head in distress. “How can I be going out with someone who’s never watched Firefly?” I turned back to him. “But—you’ve watched Doctor Who. How can you have seen Doctor Who but not Firefly? How can you know who Benedict Cumberbatch is but not know what Firefly is? I mean—it’s Firefly.”

He was starting to get annoyed now. “Would you please stop saying Firefly?”

“Firefly is one of the greatest shows in the ’Verse,” I explained weakly, still in shock. “It’s my favorite show of all time.”

He smiled at this. “Don’t worry, we can still watch it.” He turned back to my laptop, scrolled through the menu, and clicked the “Play Next Episode” button.

“No, no, no,” I cried. I leaped off the bed and smashed the space bar as the amazing cold open of Our Mrs. Reynolds began to play. “That is not how you watch Firefly.”

Matt stepped back from the laptop, crossed his arms, and glared at me.

“You have to start at the beginning.” I stroked my laptop. “You have to watch it the way it was intended.”

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes and sat on my bed, arms still crossed petulantly, while I returned to the episode list and selected Serenity.

I had to justify my overreaction; he must think I’m a lunatic. “It’s just that it originally aired on TV out of order because the network had no faith in its brilliance, which was an absolute travesty.”

He stared at me with mild impatience before he slid back to the wall and gestured once more for me to join him. As I curled up under his arm, he pulled the box of Oreos onto his lap and fixed his attention on the screen.

Feeling warm and fuzzy and swelling with pride that I was about to recruit Matt for the Browncoats, I reached for an Oreo and cozied up with my favorite person to watch the pilot episode of my favorite show.

I have class in an hour.”

“Skip it,” I begged, aware that this was like asking the sun to rise in the west.

“I can’t,” he said, obviously conflicted. “Exams are coming up.”

“So? You already got into medical school.” I pointed dramatically at my laptop screen. “We have one left. This is what the last ten hours have been about!”

He gave a resigned chuckle. “This sucks.”

“You’re sick. You went on a date last night and you got food poisoning. Or-or-OR—you caught the flu from me. Anyone who saw us can vouch that I was not well last night.”

He smirked. “You’re desperate.”

I nodded, clinging to him like an anchor, holding him in place. “I really, really am. Please.”

“I am not skipping class to watch TV,” he laughed.

I gasped, clutching my chest, stung by the insult. “Firefly is not just TV.”

He shrugged helplessly. “I wish I could stay.”

“It’s forty-two minutes. We can make it.”

He considered me for a moment, eyes narrowed. “Not if we keep arguing about it.”

I squealed in excitement and started the very last episode of Firefly, victorious.

We’d made it. We’d survived our first date. Well, there actually hadn’t been much of a date to survive, considering we’d been at the restaurant for ten whole minutes before my migraine made it impossible for me to function. But once that nightmare had passed, we’d made the most of it, cuddling on my bed, feeding each other Oreos and binging the entirety of my favorite show in a single night.

The night had started out so awful, but it had ended amazingly.

“I really have to go,” Matt sighed, checking his phone for the time when the credits rolled. He scooted off the bed.

“I really wish you didn’t,” I said in a small voice, curled up on the bed, peering up at him pathetically. The sun had risen hours ago, but I didn’t want our night to end.

He smiled. “Try again tonight?” he proposed.

I grinned happily. “Yes! Yes, absolutely.”

“Not sure I can swing another reservation, though,” he admitted, double-checking his pockets for his car keys, wallet, and phone. “Had to employ a bit of charm to get a table last night at such short notice and then we bailed on them. How about you meet me at D’Onofrio’s? I get out of class at seven.”

This last detail was unnecessary. I was more than familiar with his schedule: I’d spent the last four months secretly in love with him and thus was hyper-aware of his comings and goings. I knew that he worked on Wednesday nights, so tonight, Tuesday, would be our soonest chance to have another go at a “proper” date. I promised myself I wouldn’t let my freaking menstrual cycle screw things up again.

Matt aimed for the door but paused with his hand on the knob like he’d forgotten something. Then he strode back over to me and kissed me intensely—the first time our lips had met since yesterday morning. “Bye. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye,” I breathed, beaming at his retreating back, my heart floating somewhere near the ceiling.

Leslie was standing right outside the door when he opened it. She gave him a once-over and raised a suspicious eyebrow. Matt flushed bright pink, said hello, and hurried down the hall.

She slunk into our room, grinning ear-to-ear, and winked knowingly. “Told you—not a hookup.”

I rolled my eyes. “We literally spent the night watching Netflix.”

She frowned slightly, seemingly disappointed that neither of her friends had gotten laid last night, but quickly masked it with a big smile. “So it went well?”

My grin was huge and involuntary. “Amazing,” I sighed. “Aside from the puking, I mean.” I told her about the horrible migraine and how he’d taken care of me, and how we were planning a do-over for tonight.

“D’Onofrio’s is more casual than the steakhouse,” she said thoughtfully. “Nice atmosphere for a date, though. It’s usually dim and candlelit and the music’s quieter. Super romantic. Get a glass of wine and share dessert.” She smacked her lips. “Dang, kinda wish I was going now.”

I smiled dreamily at the ceiling, imagining me, Matt, and romance. I could not wait.

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