There was a strong smell of solvent, clay, and led that lingered in the air. In a corner framed canvas stacked on top of one another cased a dark tower on the wall his art hung. Through the window a ray of sun, that had managed to slip past a snow cloud, illuminated the one painting he had worked passionately on for two semesters. Lose canvas hung carelessly where it had been torn representing it self as a symbol of what I had done.
It was just the two of us sitting there in the deafening silence. The window I was sitting at was cold and it took my breath to reveal a sentiment that had been drawn out days ago. That childish notion of innocent love mocked me and reminded me of how selfish I was being. I couldn't look at him and I couldn't say any more.
I could feel his eyes fixed on me, searching for a reason why and pleading with me to reconsider. Thoughts ran through my head of doubt. Did I really do the right thing? Did I make a mistake? Am I being naive or just stupid? I know what love is, I felt it long ago and gave it up for my pride. Am I repeating the same cycle?
But this wasn't love, not for me anyway. And without looking back I silently left the art room like the cowered, I am. I had left in my wake, questions that he would never get the answers to, and adding another man to the list of people I have hurt.
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