MIRELA AWAKENED with a start. They lingered still, right behind her eyelids - images of her bloodsoaked hands, of Zarina's last breath, and of fear, of madness. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she craned her neck to the window. It was daybreak.

Nightmare or not, at least she had slept through the night. A full eight hours of rejuvenation pullulated in her limbs and along her spine. Sitting upright, she rubbed her eyes again, trying to dispel the wisps of her nightmare. They lingered still, like they'd never leave. 

When the orderly came by with the janitors, Mirela had already cleaned up and readied herself for the day. She found herself in the dining hall even before the bell for breakfast went off. After she'd eaten, she was in the common room as though run by autopilot, and waiting for group therapy. This was the day. She was ready to acknowledge her past and face it. At least try to face it.

"My name is Mirela Diaconu. I'm 17 years old."

"Hi, Mirela," the circle chorused.

"When I was 15, I stabbed a man in self-defense. But he ended up killing my mother. I watched her die and... and--"

Mirela's eyes stung, her throat tightened. She was wrong; she wasn't ready.

"And she's gone. I can't... I just want..."

What did she want? She knew she couldn't have her mother back, but that was what she wanted...

"It's alright," she heard Doctor Strinholm say, "thank you for sharing. Does anyone have anything to say to Mirela?"

Someone did start talking, however, the voices, the circle, the common room, everything faded until it was just her and her mind. Mirela pushed the memories behind the walls and fortified them. Built them up with steel and stone. Compartmentalized. She feared they'd already escaped, and she quaked at the thought of it.

No, no! she scolded. You're in the common room of St. Frances Institute. It's a gray day. Beautiful nonetheless. You have gardening later. Not the glassrooms, the rose garden. It's a beautiful gray day, so the sun won't be a bother. 

Little by little, Mirela grounded herself. The panic attack which felt imminent was now waning, withering. The chair she gripped the sides of hardened, solid ground braced her feet. Her vision cleared, and sounds came alive.

"I know for sure your mom would want you to live for her."

It was Tomas. Although his tone was encouraging, his eyes were weighed with worry. Mirela wanted to thank him, but she couldn't find her voice. Instead, she offered him a grateful smile. He acknowledged it with a solemn nod.

Strinholm spoke after a minute of silence. "Group, affirmations?"

An inharmoniously somber chorus. "Your trauma doesn't define you."

Hours later, Mirela sat in the art room, way after art therapy was over. They had splashed paint over watercolor paper, then drawn objects and characters in the blobs. She had enjoyed it; it was one of the most relaxing things she'd participated in that day. Be that as it may, it wasn't enough. She was still compartmentalizing, grounding. Planting her feet firmly on the linoleum floor, she tightened her grip on the paintbrush in her hand, she focused her attention on the canvas mounted in front of her.

Here and now...

The tall stool Mirela perched on was next to a window. Outside, the sky was still gray - a conventional, alpine fall day. As gray as can be, nevertheless not like a slate, not uninspiring. Nor heavy and foreboding. More like, alive - the clouds rolled and unfurled with vigor. They sent the breeze with word of a mellow drizzle later.

She watched the curtains swell and deflate, and flutter on occasion, like the heart of a great beast. Then her mind wandered. Not too far. Only back to that one unconventional fall day. When it was bright and sunny and she'd seen periwinkles that Tomas had grown.

Periwinkles. Here and now.

Before long, Mirela had drawn a whole cluster of these flowers. They grew out of a heart. Pleased with her work, she set about mixing that perfect periwinkle blue with acrylics. A dollop of Cornflower Fields, some Chinese White. The littlest droplet of Lady Lilac.

"Hey."

Mirela started, nearly dropping her palette..

"Sorry..." Tomas stepped in next to her. "That's pretty."

"Thanks." Readjusting herself on her stool, she reverted to mixing the colors.

"Periwinkles," he said softly.

"Yeah..." she confirmed.

"Hey," he said again, muted, almost whispering, "I thought you were gonna have another panic attack today... in group..."

"Yeah, me too..."

"I'm sorry about your mom. I can tell you miss her a lot."

A shuddering breath escaped her. "More than anything in the world."

"I know there's more to your pain than just your mother's loss. But opening up as much as you did was really brave."

"Thank you." Chuckling at a thought that formed in her head, she added, "you know, I figured I'd open up to Dr Strinholm before I did in group... to a whole bunch of people."

"It's because you've found a camaraderie in the circle. You've listened to all of them talk about their pains, sort of confide in you. You've begun to see them as folk who'd understand you. You seek empathy from them and not Amalie because you know they too have been through hell."

"That makes sense." Finishing the crimson base of the heart, she lifted her brush off the canvas and paused, querying, "how do you know this?"

"Just parroting what Amalie told me." Tomas shrugged nonchalantly.

"Still impressive," asserted Mirela.

"What? Being a parrot?"

That elicited a giggle from her. Shaking her head, she went back to her painting. A hush blanketed the two. It wasn't heavy or awkward, only cozy and... safe, somehow. Mirela cherished this. Here and now.

Suddenly animated, Tomas declared, "I feel inspired."

Even as Mirela kept up the appearance of being engrossed in laying down the first layer of paint, she was observing Tomas in her peripheral vision. He struggled with mounting a canvas, managed to topple his easel twice, and cussed it out both times.

"How does this work?" He groaned in exasperation. "Is mine broken?"

Mirela tried, but she couldn't suppress the laugh that bubbled forth. Taking the canvas from Tomas, she fixed it on the easel. She reworked the height so it suited him better. 

"There," she said, moving aside, "all done."

"Huh. Thanks." Tomas smacked his lips. "You make it look so easy."

"I'll teach you later," she promised him.

"Much appreciated."

Wondering what Tomas had in mind, what he wanted to draw, Mirela turned her stool to spectate. Picking up a pencil, he stared at his blank canvas, and she stared at him. He hmm-d, then put his pencil back and replaced it with a brush. Looking around, he zeroed on a bottle of acrylic on her stand.

"Cerulean Heaven," read Tomas, picking the bottle up. He showed her the color and questioned, "do you think deep water looks like this?"

Mirela shrugged. Frowning, he turned to the canvas again and flung the paint on it. With the brush, he evened the hue all over. Setting the brush and bottle down, he planted himself on a stool and waited. 

When Tomas glanced at her, he held her gaze. He always held her gaze. His brown eyes were always endlessly obsidian and unreasonably affable. Emotive, yet calm. And she couldn't take staring at him too long. The quietude between them may be cozy and safe as ever, maintaining eye contact with that boy unquieted her nonetheless. Thankfully for her, Tomas was rather inclined to explore his artistic flair. He chose a brownish color and dropped a blob of it right in the middle of his blue base. Plucking another clean brush, he got to work on it.

Her view obscured by Tomas, Mirela patiently waited for his revelation. An unprecedented delight effervesced within her. She relished that feeling. It was new, refreshing.

A moment later, he moved to the side executing a dramatic flourish at the canvas. "Ta-daa!" he exclaimed, seeming quite pleased with himself. "What do you think?"

"Hmm..." Examining the artwork, Mirela took in the blueness of it, and the whitish splotches distributed across it. Angling her head, she tried to decipher what the strange brown object in the center could be. "I like it," she declared at last, "very abstract... and impressionist-ish..."

"Yeah!" He sounded happier. "I did try impressionism. That's sunlight on water."

Then it struck Mirela. "And that's a boat!"

"Right!" Tomas beamed; Mirela's heart did a little dance.

"So..." she said searchingly, "does it mean anything?"

His face fell, making Mirela wish she could take back that question.

"Umm... does it have to?"

"No... no," she scrambled, "...art is--it's subjective."

"It's just a little boat alone in vast, cerulean waters. It could be a lake, or it could be an ocean." He looked at her, uncertainty clouding him.

"Yes, of course!" said Mirela, realizing that it came out a bit too loud. Softening, she insisted, "of course."

"I'm not much of an artist. Well, not a good one anyway," he admitted. "I write poetry though. And people seem to like it. Actually, only my brother and Amalie have read them, but they--"

"Will you show me?" Mirela asked earnestly.

Tomas appeared taken aback. "You like poetry?"

"I do. English literature was my favorite subject in high school."

"I'm not as good as the poets they teach you about in high school literature classes..."

Noticing the doubt beginning to creep back into him, Mirela said, "some of those poets weren't all that great though. But hey, it's alright if you're not ready to show it to other people."

"No! No. No no, I'd love to." Tomas shook his head. "You're not other people. You're my friend. If I share my poems, will you share your art?"

"That's a deal."

"Great. Wait here while I go get my journal?"

Mirela nodded.

To kill time, she rearranged all the clean brushes, washed the used ones and spread them out to dry. She put all the paints in their designated boxes. She placed her incomplete painting on the top shelf of the canvas cabinet for safekeeping. She would finish it someday later. There was nowhere to hurry to. Just wait for Tomas. Here and now.

Sometime later, Tomas returned. He held out a pocket-sized, softbound notebook. On the teal cover was the inscription: This Journal Belongs to Tomas Neumann.

"My brother got it customized for me," he explained, the warmth of his gaze flowing in his voice. "Go ahead."

Mirela reinstated his smile and opened the notebook. It took some time for her brain to decode his small, sloping handwriting. It was a foreword, written in blue ink. 

in the world of hurt, i fell into these ways. all these ways. while they may have disillusioned me with some semblance of shelter and catharsis, they hurt the people i love. and, in time, they'd have hurt me too.

so, what happened?

i fled the world, the pestilence, the pain, the chaos, and came here. the curtain descended, and here in a room with windows that regarded old, wise oaks, in the delicate, natural light, i created this.

this somehow responds to everything bad, and everything good. and everything that was, then wasn't, and will now never be. everything that may be, will be.

i created this.

it's really just to make me feel better, during the rehabilitation, the exile, the purge, the surrender. i made this.

i hope you take something from it, too.

In a twisting of guts and a knotting of heartstrings, Mirela read it again. Dulcet transmissions from a boy on a little boat alone in vast, cerulean waters.

❖

author's note:

i know it's not my best work. but i'm not the best version of myself right now. i know it's all disjointed dialogues. more tell, and not enough show... but i thought i could proceed with the plot before i hit a block again, and prettify everything in my second draft?

i don't know. i'm sorry. thank you for still reading it though.