Weekend passed with nothing special. Cleaned the apartment with Julia at Saturday morning, then locked myself in my room until Sunday to did the commissions. Glad that Julia is so understanding about my circumstances—supportive even. She'd checked on me now and then, brought some snacks, then went out with Liam and gave me some peace to draw.
Today is Monday morning. Julia has left the apartment so early. So, I walk alone to the academy that is crowded with its usual chaotic energy. My ponytail swings along right-left. I can't help but keep smiling all the way through, somehow I love Monday morning. It has fresh vibes and a good feeling. Also I usually make a small goal for the week—such as, I should work on at least 3 commissions this week. This week, though, I don't have any resolution yet.
The art building smells like fresh paint and coffee, the sound of sneakers squeaking against floors and students chatting spilling into the hallways. I clutch my sketchbook to my chest, weaving my way through the narrow corridor lined with lockers. I turn a corner too sharply — and collide into someone.
My sketchbook goes flying from my hands, landing with a loud thud on the floor. I stumble back, muttering a quick, "Sorry!" before bending down to retrieve it.
"I think you dropped something," a familiar voice says, laced with quiet amusement.
I glance up and freeze. Shit.
Elliot.
He's crouched down too, reaching for my sketchbook. His light brown hair is tousled like he just ran his hands through it, and a camera strap hangs loosely around his neck, the lens glinting under the morning lights. Ah, he's really pursuing his dream to be a photographer.
Elliot is wearing a navy hoodie and ripped jeans, looking completely effortless—like he doesn't even care about how he looks—but somehow managing to make my heart skip a beat. Maybe because this view—him looking at me with his usual style—is so ... familiar. Maybe I'm such a hypocrite when I said I hate him with all my life. Maybe I just don't know how to react and process it. Or maybe I have a very a fickle heart.
"You're always bumping into trouble, aren't you?" he says, handing me the sketchbook with a crooked smile. Not that smile again. Ugh. I know that he holds grudges underneath. It scares me how he acts so nicely now.
"So, you know that you are a trouble," I say, managing a small laugh as I take it from him. Our fingers brush, and I pull back a little too fast.
"I have good self awareness. You should have it too, and admit that you're a clumsy," Elliot muses, standing up fully.
I hug the sketchbook tighter, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "What are you doing here?"
"Do you mean why am I here in this fine art building? In this academy? In this town? You think I chase you here for revenge, don't you?" His eyes—a soft hazel that seems almost gold in the morning light—flick over me, lingering just a second too long before he smirks.
If Felix is dangerous, Elliot is way more than it. Because I fell for him, trusted him, and got buried in that rabbithole for months before I finally free. But here we go. He shows his face around me as if trying to threat me—or reminds me—that he's here.
I look away from the intense eye contact. Uncomfortable. I know what he's thinking. I know him too well, unfortunately. For now, I'm just going to pretend everything's normal. "The photography department is in the next building."
"It is," he says, adjusting the strap of his camera. "How do you know I'm taking a photography major?"
That smirk—I swear to God—looks so degrading and annoying. He just tries to get out of a reaction from me. He taps the side of his camera lightly. "Even a newborn knows the obvious," I answer quietly.
"But nobody knows me more and better than you," he murmurs.
My breath hitches hearing that from him. What the heck does he want? Messing with my heart and head again? I think I'm stronger now, but I guess a little thing still triggers me.
There's a beat of silence. I pick at the corner of my sketchbook, trying not to drown in the intensity of his gaze.
"You know," Elliot says after a moment, his voice low, "I was surprised to see you yesterday. At the supermarket. I never tried to talk to you again even if I've been studying in this academy too for months. But I guess we are destined to meet again."
My chest tightens slightly. Destined? If it really the case, God must hates me. Why I even destined to meet him?
"You seemed ... different," he says thoughtfully.
"Different how?"
"Stronger." He gives a small shrug. "More alive."
I don't know what to say to that. Part of me wants to laugh, to brush it off. Another part—the bigger part—wants to believe his words but it's since I've lost all my trust for him.
"People change," I say, my voice a little rough.
"Yeah," Elliot agrees quickly. "They do."
We stand there for a second longer, the world moving around us, and for a moment, it feels like we're cool now. But, no. I swiftly regain my composure and turn around, ready to leave.
Elliot laughs dryly—sounds more like sarcastic chuckle of a devil. "But I guess you haven't fully changed because you just leave like that without a word. Typical you."
The grip on my sketchbook tightens. I hate him. I hate that what he said is true. With my thin patience left, I say, "Or maybe try to understand why I do that."
Enough. I drag my heavy legs away from him. Great. He just broke my Monday mood. Now I have a resolution of this week: not bumping into him again. I don't want to see all memories go through my mind.
I sigh, rubbing my forehead as I head toward my studio class. This semester is going to be a lot more complicated than I thought. God, please help me and hold me. I just want to live my life peacefully in this academy.