Learning to Let Go of What Hurts

When I arrived at the hospital, my clothes were torn, and my body was covered in wounds.

The doctor sighed when he saw me. He said that if I had come just a few hours earlier, my arm might have been saved.

I stared numbly at the ceiling as I listened to the doctor's verdict. My right arm had suffered comminuted fractures. I would likely never paint again.

Tears slipped down from my eyes. I felt despaired. Why couldn't I learn to let go?

What was Yves Chapman doing right now?

He'd probably broken open a new bottle of wine last night to celebrate the absence of my harassment. Maybe he played the piano with Clarisse Tatcher, his junior, and enjoyed their time alone.

I laughed self-deprecatingly. I wasn't a hindrance between them anymore.

Just then, my phone rang. It was Yves.

I closed my eyes slowly. It was time I learned my lesson.

Yves stormed into my room, not a wrinkle seen on his clothes, and frowned down at me. His eyes were cold, as if he was just looking at some peasant. "What are you playing at this time?" he chided. "Why aren't you answering your phone?

"Did you really hurt yourself just because I didn't answer your call yesterday? I told you, I was busy. Why can't you be more sensible?"

My wounds, still bleeding, seemed to suffer another blow, thanks to his words.

My cold, numb heart seemed to cry out again at that moment. He never even asked me what happened before doling out judgment. Not even the sight of me lying here, injured, could affect him in any way.

On the other hand, it wasn't surprising that he could affect me with just a few words. I'd loved him for five years, after all.

I looked at him sadly, unable to say a word. Tears pooled in my eyes, poignant and pleading.

The white walls seemed to reflect his indifference, while the smell of disinfectant permeating the air scorned my foolhardiness.

Yves had never seen me like this before, so he was uncomfortable. "Rest and recover well. Don't forget to sign up for the National Art and Design Competition next week. I'm going back to practice."

"The piano competition is very important to me," he added. "Don't disturb me."

With that, he turned and left, never glancing back, not once asking about my injury.

A chilling emptiness settled over me as I watched him walk away.

My words were stuck in my throat. This was the man I'd pursued for five years.

Tears began running down my face uncontrollably. I'd once believed that my sincere efforts and passion had finally pierced his heart, that he'd finally acknowledged my existence.

The piano competition was important to him, just as Clarrise was, and his friends were important to him, too. But what about me?

Once upon a time, I thought that putting in effort would get me a reward, just like the way I had been rewarded when I persisted in practicing art—but reality had proven otherwise. Determination was not enough to bring about a happy ending. My true feelings were nothing to Yves.

Then why did he agree to be with me? Why did he give me hope?

Eventually, the sun set. I curled up on my bed, shivering, as my mind took me back to that night. All alone, I had been trapped in my car. I had lost consciousness for a while. I was desperate, thinking that I was about to die.

Right before I fainted, I had called Yves. He was the first person I'd thought of, but he never answered my call. I was unconscious for the rest of the night; help never came.

Maybe I'd been wrong from the start. Maybe I was forcing this, just like I'd forced myself to take up art as a career. It was never meant to be.

After five days of treatment, my body recovered, except for my arm.

The doctor suggested that I go abroad for further treatment. All I could do was smile bitterly. I did not have money for that.

I walked out of the hospital and returned to my rented apartment. The small living room was filled with paintings.

Five years ago, I'd fallen in love with Yves at our graduation ceremony. From that moment on, he became the muse that fueled my creativity and defined my artistic vision.

The entire apartment was filled with paintings of him. It felt like I'd been living in his world all this time, losing myself in the process.