All Chapters of BLURRED LINES : Chapter 1 - Chapter 5

I should have just worked on that forsaken toilet when the issue was milder, if I had, I wouldn't be in this bloody mess. But there I was; halfway down the hall, arms filled with sketchbooks and rolled canvases, my brain still locked inside the charcoal-smudged anatomy sketch I had abandoned in Studio B in a haze to settle into my new dorm, and muttering to myself like a woman possessed. “I swear, if my temporary roommate is loud, I will lose my mind. I cannot deal with noise. Not at this crucial mo…” Thump! My body collided with something solid. My glasses slid down my nose and Mother Gravity chose violence. “Oh…” A hand, not so delicate, caught mine almost immediately, saving my head from what would have been a nasty hit. The contact jolted straight up my arm, sharp and electric, like my nervous system had been personally offended. I blinked. Twice. But I was still hazy, I let the hand pull me upright. “Careful,” a voice said. Low and seemingly amused. “You were abou

It's the weekend and three days since I've been breathing the same air with Mr. Smug face. I took a day off from work to arrange myself into my new space. I stacked my sketchbooks on the small shelf by the door, color-coded because order was the only thing keeping my brain from short-circuiting with the awareness of his smug face across the hall. The apartment was quiet, almost peaceful…just the way I like it. Too peaceful. Suddenly I felt a presence followed by Ernest clearing his throat behind me. “So,” he said, casually as if he didn't just barge into my space unannounced in that infuriatingly confident way of his, “we should probably set some ground rules.” “I didn't let you in,” I said, stilling from my arranging. “The door was literally open and.. I'm not in yet or do you want me to…” I could hear his footsteps advancing inwards and I turned. He raised his hands, leaning on the doorframe. “stand the hell there,” I said, carefully measured, now facing him fully with my

By the time I reached the café, my thoughts were tangled and loud that it overpowered that of the annoyingly loud coffee machine. The familiar scent of coffee grounds and baked sugar wrapped around me like a different kind of survival. “Lan!” Marcus, my very loud co-worker, called from behind the counter. “You’re late.” “Existential crisis,” I replied, tying my apron. “Valid.” He said and signaled towards the impatient woman in front of him, “later before I get my ears beaten off.” The café at sunset is warm; golden light slipping through wide windows, conversations layered softly over the hiss (annoyingly loud as hell sound) of the espresso machine. I like it here but the people… not so much. Orders are simple but people are very complex. Milk is steamed to temperature and no one moves my canvases at the back shelf of the store room which everyone; by everyone I mean; myself, Marcus, Hilda but currently hasn't been to work in days and Sam, our manager, who calls it O