Page 18 of Our Little Moments

But the words, these stupid articles, cut through everything. Through my resolve, through my attempts to ignore the truth.

Everything isdifferent.

My life was turned upside down, and I can’t find my way back up. I hate that everything has been a mystery to me lately. I hate that I don’t know what I’m doing or where I should be going.

I used to know who I was. I used to have a sense of purpose. A path that led forward, something to aim for. But now?

Now, I don’t even know where to start.

All I can do is sit here and let the tears slide down my face.

I wipe them away hastily, like if I do it fast enough, the mess inside me will stop too. But it doesn’t.

You’ll figure it out,I try to tell myself.You always do.

But I don’t believe it. And maybe that’s the hardest part—realizing that I don’t even believe in myself anymore.

Everything’s a goddamn mess. But I can’t just donothing.

I push myself back up and grab my keys. I’m here, in this town, so might as well try something new.

Adrian

As always, a smile spreads across my face when I step into the familiar art gallery. Ever since Layla got into arts—first it was drawing, then it was painting, then she got into writing—I tried to step outside my comfort zone and into hers. I want to understand my sister when she talks about her dreams and passions, so I make sure to explore art, educating myself as much as possible. Today, I’m doing so by visiting Rowan’s art gallery.

There’s so much beauty in art, but most of it comes from its uniqueness. Despite having the same tools, every painting is different. It shows the individuality of people, and that hits close to home.

I look back at the paintings. Every time I come here, I can’t help but see how Layla escaped everything through art.

Art has a unique way of making you forget about reality and get lost in a world where your struggles can’t reach you. Is that why Layla loved it so much?

She’s always been our dreamer, but also an overthinker. Her mind goes a mile a minute, and it’s difficult to catch up with her sometimes. I can see how art would help pause the overthinking.

I get back home after a long day of school to find an explosion of colors. My eyes almost sting from the brightness in the living room. There’s paint everywhere. I walk to join my family, only to find Layla looking so adorable my heart practically melts.

Her chocolate-brown hair is tied in a bun, and she has splashes of paint all over her arms, face, and clothes. Still, with a paintbrush in hand, she has her eyes laser focused on her project. I almost laugh at her tongue slightly sticking out of her mouth from her intense concentration. She’s had that habit for a couple of years now.

I sit right next to her, but she’s unbothered. I don’t think she even heard me come in or saw me sit next to her. Dad’s eyes meet mine from the kitchen, and I know he finds us endearing. I’ve offered Layla help with her technique for years now, and I can proudly say the student surpassed the teacher.

I can’t tell exactly what she’s painting, but, knowing my sister, that’s her whole goal: to be abstract, and to leave it all up to imagination. I would hug her right now, but I don’t think she’d like the distraction, especially if I make her mess up.

So, I stay next to her, watching her in awe. In a way, I want to make sure I’m by her side, cheering her on. But clearly she doesn’t need my support because our mother comes in minutes later with a giant smile.

“So, I’ve bought the colors we were missing so you can finish your—Oh hi, Adrian.”

Soon, all of our family is spread around the living room, supporting my sister without words as she works. We’re all trying to seem occupied with something else so Layla doesn’t feel pressured by our eyes and attention, but I know she’s smart enough to see through our pathetic attempts. Isabella and I are the privileged ones sitting by her side, since she loves having us close.

When she’s done, she practically throws herself at me, giggling, and I grin at her, uncaring of the paint tainting my clothes.

We’ve always been close, and I’m the first person she ever felt comfortable to dream out loud with. So, I hug her tighter and whisper in her ear, “I’m proud of you, my little dreamer.”

Frustration bubbles through.We used to be so goddamn close.I want us to be a team again, for her to know she can rely on me, that she can talk to me. I’ll always be there for her to return to, no matter how much she shuts me off. No matter what she does or what happens, I’ll always be her older brother. Her safe space to land.

It would be so much easier to take care of her, to fix what’s obviously been bothering her, if I actually knew what she needed. But that’s not going to happen. Layla turned quiet over the years, and I don’t know how to bring back the bond we once had.

My thoughts are cut short when a familiar silhouette walks in.

Stella.

---