Red.

The color of attention, anger and assertiveness. Danger and Love.

Distinct colors spread apart on his palate, and red was the only color that ran dry. He sighed.

Dim light created toned dark shadows under his hands, he couldn’t really tell the difference between a soaked spot and a dry grain. He ignored the consequences and continued dabbing onto the canvas, letting the slabs of thin blood roll down along his angulated easel. His eyes were about to hurt as he had been staring at the canvas for the past six hours under the awful lighting.

Eyes.

Eyes of an animal – full of fear and flame. The last time Luhan saw that pair of eyes he used to fell in love with, were the eyes of demon and death. He hated the fact that his lover didn’t give him a pleasant memory when they parted. He believed that partings didn’t have to be sad and hateful; he once hoped that it would be peaceful if they would ever break up.

There were two creatures existed within his lover; the one who sheltered Luhan in every way he could, and the other one who slit Luhan apart with crimson blood dirtying the canvas. The mixture of tears and blood was never erased from Luhan’s mind. He thought he could forget about it by gulping down concentrated black caffeine every night at three and puffs of pungent lingering in his mouth; not only that it didn’t work, it exacerbated.

His lover was a caffeine and tobacco addict. Luhan never complained about having to inhale secondhand smoke every single day. Instead, he got influenced and started to share the pack of cigarette.

Face.

Shades started to connect and make sense. Moisture met Luhan’s eyes. He was unsure of where his hands have brought him. A face, which belonged to his lover. Ex-lover, maybe.

It was an unpleasant ride despite his lover smothered Luhan with love. The love seemed vague now.

‘Perhaps it wasn’t love’, Luhan thought as he stared down at a long stretched and elevated mark on his right thigh. Scabbed and discolored, with signs of wrinkling around that area. It didn’t hurt now, but his heart still did. A blunt sculpting blade was struck across his thin fragile skin, a sharp burn came much later after feeling numbed by his lover’s blood shot eyes. He almost hated himself for how willingly he would let the so-called lover to hurt him countless times. He could not even remember the minor wounds and bruises, yet each scar seeped into his bloodstream; they ran in the blood back and forth his four chambers, reminding him of the torments he received.

They said, ‘physical pain is better than mental pain’; but when the former fades, the latter doesn’t.

And, who doesn’t get hurt when they fall, in love?

Red streaks ran across the canvas, carving out the red hair his lover used to have. His hand trembled even more with every accenting , painfully broaching him of how he used to brush the burning red hair away from his lover’s eyes. He would be caught in the midst of running his fingers through the strands of red, and a peck would be planted on the back of his hand. Soft and warm, bringing smiles across their faces, eyes nicely crescented and wrinkles found their way to their places.

Happiness.

Everybody seemed to agree to the saying: money can’t buy happiness. Luhan once agreed, too. They never had fancy colored phones, never had the cool ones which the screen could be slid up and down or the ones flipped open and close; they never had money to such luxury.

They were conventional lovers, when conversing actually mattered, when long gazes into each other’s eyes would suffice. They were happy just with the presence of one another; they never needed anything else than just sitting side-by-side painting their own canvases.

Luhan was a dreamer. He wished he could have more money; he wanted a new desk lamp to replace his rusty one with a yellow bulb. He wanted to buy his lover some quality art supplies. He wanted a better bed for both of them. He wanted things that he knew he could never get.

They struggled to strive. Yet they failed.

“ARTISTS ARE BROKE PEOPLE, LUHAN,” words stormed across the room as they fought. Tears damped Luhan’s cheeks, but his lover was right.

Unknown artists are indeed broke. They sell their imaginations, creativity, inspiration; they sell their time and soul. Still, they get nothing in return, despite having to sell everything they’ve got.

“But you said you could make us happy!” Luhan smacked the words back at his lover, and he received a sharp blow in return. His face was burning, needles prickling through his skin, and the wall of his cavity started to ooze. It stung.

Money can’t buy happiness? ‘Look at us now.’

Luhan hoped he’d never chosen this path. Sometimes a road less traveled does not mean it was better. He followed his heart and stepped into a complex sphere of aesthetes. Just when he thought his little part of this world would be vibrant, it only went darker and sank deeper.

Time.

Good times pierced through minds faster than he could imagine, while bad times lay stagnant like a grain of sand in the shoe, too small to be noticed, but small enough to hurt him.

Luhan asked for some space, and his lover granted him time. But it seemed like the time given had no expiration, everything they left behind froze while time continued to shuttle across space.

er, I said give me some space, not ing leave me hanging.

He left without saying a word. He packed everything, and stepped out of the small apartment with art supplies scattered all over, forever. He didn’t bother carrying his pencils and canvases along, nor his cellphone engraved with countless scratch marks. Luhan was a little confused.

It was supposed to be a moment for Luhan to think through things, and let himself escape from the fights for a little while, but Luhan started to regret. Not only that he failed to get over the man he loved to bits, he slept in a mess and woke up with trails of tears connecting the corner of his eyes to the strands of hair. He slept through seasons, gnawed on memories and breathed chemicals.