Page 63 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
“I saw so much of myself in her, Lanston. I don’t want to leave without giving hersomething,even a small piece of information that might help her pass on.” Her eyes dim and she stares down into her mug.
She’s right, we have time for at least a quick internet search or rummage through the old libraries.
“How about we look while we’re at Trinity College then?”
Ophelia’s eyes meet mine as she lifts her head. A lovely smile spreads over her lips and I allow my eyes to linger there. I’d do anything to see her smile like this forever.
27
Ophelia
Trinity College.It is a beautiful campus with many,manytourists. I’m not sure how the students get anything done here with the buzz. The grounds are filled with curious eyes. Gardens greener than you’ve ever seen and the smell of fresh rain—I could stay here for days, just observing the flowers and students. It’s the perfect place to crack a new book and jot down notes.
Lanston crosses Trinity College off the bucket list and grins. “We’ve nearly completed half the list.” He looks up at me, curiosity and affection dancing behind his eyes. “Do you feel closer to crossing over?”
I shake my head. “No. You?”
He shoves the paper back into his pocket and breathes out a long sigh. “No, but I also have no clue what that would feel like.” His lips arch into a smile, but I don’t miss the tension that pulls at his jaw.
He’s worried we’ll cross everything off the list and still be stuck here.
That’s a valid fear.
I feel it too.
But at least we’d still be together.I think and look over at Lanston as he studies the architecture of Trinity. His lips are red with the chill in the air, eyes bright with curiosity.At least we’ll still be together.
I smile at the thought, however fleeting it may be.
We venture inside the library, slipping between tourists as they stare in awe at the impressive room. No, it’s more than a room; it is a great hall, grander than any I’ve ever seen. The bookshelves are tall, nearly twenty feet or so. There are two stories of shelves. The ceilings are drafty, made of wood that arches beautifully with a rich brown stain. Each section has a ladder that looks entirely too thin to use. Sculpture busts of people who died a long time ago rest at the end of each row. The center of the room is made up of multiple glass cases in a perfect line. Each holds artifacts and things you’d find in museums.
Lanston traces his fingers along the glass display cases and looks up at the books, admiring the knowledge this place keeps tucked away. The ache in my chest grows as his eyes dim a bit.
“You can still do something with your experience here, you know,” I say softly, staring down at my intertwined fingers. He glances my way and I find a flicker of hope in them.
“Like what?”
“Anything you want.” I reach into his satchel and place his notebook in his hands. One of his suspenders has slid over his shoulder and he truly looks like himself right now. The messy, disorganized man that he is. His light brown hair is disheveled and those hazel eyes warm on me.
“Would you let me draw you again?”
I raise a brow and grin mischievously, folding my hands together over the crux of my lower back as I walk casually away from him. “You never asked to begin with,Nevers,” I saysarcastically, and I can hear him chuckle to himself. The smooth sound of his voice sets embers alight inside my chest.
The thought of falling in love as a phantom seems ridiculous. I’ve already had my chance at love in my short life, and it didn’t end well.
I take the spiral staircase at the end of the hall up to the second story of ancient books. It smells like dusty pages and old, creaking wood up here. The silence of the library, though filled with at least a hundred people, is deafening.
My eyes find Lanston quickly. He has selected a pillar to lean against, his eyes studying the shelves and ladders as his hand draws furiously. His brows pull together with focus.
How could such raw, beautiful talent and passion go unnoticed? I stare in awe as he works, admiring every emotion it strips from my soul.
I want to share things and bleed as he does. But first, I need to finish telling him my story; otherwise, I’m unsure he’d fully understand.
The longer I watch him, the sadder I become.
Who staved off his dreams of being his true self? Who wasn’t he good enough for? The adoration and inspiration that fuels his lovely mind should’ve been enough. I wish someone would’ve told him that his art didn’t belong hidden in his room at a mental rehabilitation center. It should have been broadcast and shouted from the rooftops.Look. I existed and these are the things I felt inside. These are the images I drew for the world to witness, to feel alongside me.
I wish I could’ve been that person for him. I wish we were alive. I’d show everyone here what he can do.
