the act of missing her.

He works with ferocity in his eyes; creases form on his forehead as he paints, wildly thrashing his arms left then right. Paint fumes flood the cramped room, enveloping every molecule, diffusing into his very own cells. Drops of reds and browns fly from his brush and land onto the dusty wooden floors, missing the layers of newspaper he laid out beneath him. He hopes that one day, he will learn to paint within those boundaries he fixed himself. The sunlight pours in through the sheer white curtains he put up months ago because she had loved them. She insisted that it brightened the room; he finally put them up and the next day she ran away.

He paints in complete silence. Only his deep, heavy breathing can be heard. Paintbrush still in hand, he wipes the sweat off his face with his forearm. He looks up: the morning sunlight reveals the dust particles dancing across the room, like the distant stars she once wished upon. (He remembers that night all too clearly.) His joints ache as he walks over to fetch a cigarette out of the back pocket of his jeans. With a quick switch, he gets it lit and walks back over to his painting. Letting the smoke slip between his lips, he hovers above his canvas and squints down, blurring the imperfections. The colours blend as the lines fade and he only wishes it would work the same way with reality. As he takes another drag of his cigarette, he catches the faint scent of her perfume. It has been months since she left but not before she scattered traces of herself; strands of hair still lay on the bathroom floor, scents of her linger between the bedsheets. This is when he remembers how he misses her.