It was the noisiest place I had ever been, because I was consumed by the silence, because my mind was screaming sentences upon sentences about anything and everything to do with you. The silent yells pierced through my brain, tearing their way through their path, eventually reaching behind my eyes. It made it hard to see anything; made it hard to concentrate on anything else.

            Its not that I was the only one in the room, no, there were others. It was just quiet. They say that once your area is tranquil, that you will be too. But as I look around the room, everyone seemed to be absolutely fine with what was going on around them, with what was going through their minds. I tried to be like them, I tried to attack the yelling with the hushed atmosphere. I picked up the brush, staring at the blank canvas before me.

            Several months ago, when we had first become friends, you told me that art was something that interested you, though you were never good at it yourself. I mentioned that I was reasonably skilled, what some would call a novice artist. I was fine with that title, absolutely fine. But then you mentioned that if someone were to paint you something, that you would fall head over heels.

            You said a lot of things like that, you know. Like if someone sat under the stars with you for an entire night, or if they held you close as if letting you go would be the last thing they wanted to do, or if they twirled you under their arms as you danced horrifically to a song you barely even knew the words to. You may not think I listen to these things, but in fact, it’s those particular utters of yours that I imprint into my brain for later use.

            I remember many other things, too. Like the way you prefer your coffee with no sugar, because you think you shouldn’t try to sweeten things that are born to be bitter; that you like orange tic tacs over peppermint because those little white capsules burn your tongue; that you would rather spend an evening with your laptop and headphones than with people, because according to you, music speaks to you even if you’re not ready to listen. I never understood what you meant by that, but I’m hoping one day you’ll explain it to me.

            Then, there are the little quirks that only I see. Like how your glare could freeze someone to death, but your smile could melt an iceberg; the way the right corner of your lip quivers before you laugh; that when you’re mad, your nostrils flare three times before you inhale deeply, ready to scar someone with your argumentative words. But there’s always my favourite; how secretive you are with every personal detail, because you don’t like to let people break down your walls.

            When you were eight, you built sandstone walls around yourself; but one day, a boy had stomped on them, told you that you weren’t a good enough baseball player to be on his team. So, you fashioned yourself something stronger, something more durable; you then brought up concrete walls. But then, a girl in your fifth year of elementary school cracked your wall, telling you that you weren’t pretty enough to be her friend, always reminding you until this wall, too, broke. Then you decided to make one made of metal, it seemed strong enough. But, of course, when you were fifteen, a boy crumpled the metal like each one of his fingers were that of a bulldozer’s claw. He clasped your heart in his hands, but never gave his in return. He left you, broken and battered and wondering what the point in living was, all because his rumours had hurt more than his rejection ever would. Finally, you realised that the strongest substance in this world is not sandstone, is not concrete, nor is it metal. This time, you made sure the wall was indestructible. This time, you made a wall of diamonds.

            But you seemed to forget, that diamonds are susceptible to heat.

            I had somewhat of a reputation, unfortunately, thanks to one prissy girl that spread lies about me. I was apparently the girl who would burn you if you got too close, and that talking to me was like playing with fire. But I eventually became happy with my title, embracing it, simply because your walls would stand no chance against me.

            I remember approaching you, hands in the front pocket of my hoodie, my feet kicking at the dusty ground beneath us. I mumbled a greeting, and you turned your head away in return. This continued for weeks, until one day, you caved in. You told me your name, then told me your natural hair colour – because your scorching red didn’t seem all that natural to me. The next day when I went to talk to you, you were gone. I found you again sooner or later, and that time, you gave me your number and a smile, a sort of thank you for my hard work. Eventually, I had gotten your address, favourite movie, favourite song, and your birthday. I went to your house one day after a texting marathon with you, deciding it was finally time to see the show behind the curtains. It was nothing spectacular, but it was home, it was something special to you, and it made me happy that something could make you happy. I found out that you had a sister too, that day. She was gorgeous, with flowing caramel locks and bright eyes. She contrasted you entirely, but in a good way. It made you seem more like one of a kind.

            It was after the third sleepover we had that I realised my feelings for you may not be entirely friendly. It worried me at first; the way your gaze would enrapture me, the way I found myself wondering your lips on mine would feel like, the way your very existence made my own more worthy. But after that had all set in, I remembered all these things. I remembered how I actually fell for you, and if I think about it logically, I fell for you the first time you had smiled at me; because I knew that your smile could be the only thing I see for a thousand years, and I wouldn’t get bored, wouldn’t deflate, wouldn’t reconsider my decision of seeing it. Because I would see you smile, and that alone is worth more than anything I have ever received.

            “Amber,”

            I snapped out of my thoughts, realising that the silence was now broken by my arts advisor. I would say art teacher, but he despised that name, he condemned its use, saying that it is worse than spitting in someone’s face. Because to him, he could not teach, because one does not simply teach art. He says that art is something you feel, something that runs through your veins, something that can be seen but not heard or touched. Art, he would say, is magic in its purest form.

            “Everyone has already left, yet you have not painted a single thing. Would you like some assistance?”

            I nodded, purely because I needed to paint something that would tell you how I feel, tell you that I needed you as a constant to survive, tell you that even if you don’t think it, that you’re an angel with clipped wings.

            “Alright, I want you to not concentrate.”

            “What do you mean?” I asked, but he simply shushed me, waving his hand in front of my eyes to make me close them.

            “Now, I want you to focus on everything but yourself and what is in your head. I want you to focus on the sounds you hear, on the air you breathe, on the things you feel.”

            He sounded like an absolute whackjob, or a hippie. But still, I took his word for it, taking a deep breath and letting myself go. At first, there was nothing but silence, oxygen, and the chilled wood of the paintbrush. But then, I started to understand his words.

            Your voice filled my head, the melody of your singing, the cracking of your angered tone, the gleeful tune of your laugh. Then, I smelt it too; your perfume, sweet, fruity, with a hint of something that can only be described as pure Krystal. Lastly, I felt it. I felt everything you surge within me. I felt the electricity buzzing on my nerves, I felt the blood rushing through my veins, I felt the ghost of your touch grazing over my body, inch by inch until it finished on my lips; the lips that are now curving into a smile.

            I gripped at the wooden brush, my fingers securing around it like it was an extension of myself. I raised it above my head, opening my eyes as I began to scrawl across the canvas. Though I could see what I was painting, I had no control over it. I followed his advice, just zoning out completely and painting what was happening within me.

            “Good, very good.” He said, pulling up a stool next to me. I heard it, I heard the scrape it made as it dragged along the flooring, but I took no notice, too divulged in the merciless actions of my hand and brush.

            I dipped into the palette, with the intention of painting something beautiful. I traced every delicate curve onto the canvas as if it were the dips and slides of your waist, I skittered every crevice as if it were the bridge of your doll-like nose, I graced the page with every adoring feature that my brain associated with you.

            I furrowed my brows, thinking of nothing, absolutely nothing. I was mindless. I was empty, soulless, yet full; full with nothing but you. Your eyes pierced mine as if we sat across from each other, your nose crinkled as if you had laughed at a joke I had just said, your smile curved as if you had melted my heart right in front of me.

            You weren’t here, but you were.

You weren’t here, but your presence hung around me like an aura, my entire being knowing nothing but you.

            “Amber, I’m . . .”

            I put the brush down, dropping the palette to the table beside me gently. My advisor looked at me, his eyes growing wide, but not the expectant kind of wide, the kind of wide that tells me that he’s both surprised and impressed with my work.

            “I’m speechless.”

            So was I. I had no idea of what I had created over these past few minutes. Time was not of the essence, and I made sure to use as much fruitful effort as each of my paintings deserved. I turned my head to face him, smiling proudly. He smiled back, clapping his hand on my shoulder.

            “If she doesn’t already, she’s going to love you.” He got up from his chair, walking towards the door. I looked down at my hands, my dirty, paint ridden hands.

            “You really think so?”

            “I really do,” He flicked his dreadlocks out of his eyes, turning on his heel and walking out the door. He threw me a peace sign as he exited, and I could hear the grin in his voice as he said, “Trust me, she’ll be all over you after this. Later, Liu.”

            “Later,” I called out, standing from my seat.

            I didn’t want to look at the painting, not yet. So, I picked up my palette and brush, washing each of them in the dingy sink by the corner of the room. Once I had set them down, I rinsed my hands before drying them on my shirt.

            I walked towards the canvas, taking a deep breath as I let my eyes glaze over it.

            I had painted something ruthless, something cold, cunning, agile, something fierce, and ambitious. Yet, I painted something considerate, something undeniably beautiful; with cracks and flaws, but with grace and elegance that none could match. I have painted something that others would consider to be a masterpiece, but when I look at it, all I see –

            −Is that I have painted you, Krystal Jung.

A/N: I'm still so undecided on how I feel about this . . .