Page 5 of Undisputed Chaos
This was the version of me no one saw on @IslaBelleflower—the quiet girl with slightly fuzzy hair and actual pores that I usually covered with foundation.
The girl who sometimes felt lost in the space between the life she showed online and the life she actually lived. The girl who painted when she couldn't sleep and who sometimes scrolled through Noah's old pictures despite knowing better.
I wandered over to my easel, trailing a finger over the cool paint, leaving a tiny fingerprint. Maybe I’d turn it into a star later.
My art was full of those little mistakes, hidden under layers of color. No one ever noticed, but I liked knowing they were there.
I wandered into the kitchen, opening the fridge out of habit. Leftovers from my parents, a bowl of strawberries, a bottle of oat milk, to name a few.
I wasn’t hungry, but I took a strawberry anyway, biting into it as I leaned against the counter.
The truth was, nothing really happened to me. Not the way it did in the books I read or the shows I watched. My life was a string of pretty moments, stitched together by routine and the gentle certainty that nothing truly bad could reach me here.
Maybe that was what made me restless sometimes, what made me scroll through old photos or stare at the ceiling at two in the morning, wondering if I was missing something vital.
I finished the strawberry and rinsed my hands, the cool water bringing me back into the present.
I caught my reflection in the microwave door, messy hair, sleepy eyes, the faintest trace of a smile.
I looked… content. Maybe even happy. But there was always a part of me that wanted more, more color, meaning, and love that made you feel like you were the only girl in the world.
I curled up on the couch, blanket pulled to my chin, and scrolled through my feed.
The only light came from my phone, blue and soft against my skin. This was my favorite night ritual. No pressure to be “on,” just me, a strawberry or two, and the kind of content I’d never dare to publicly like.
The algorithm of my private account was feeling generous. I scrolled past the usual travel reels and pastel interiors, then paused, heart skipping, at a photo that made heat spark low.
A guy, faceless, of course, shirtless in a bathroom mirror, every inch of his torso inked in swirling black and color. His hands were big, veiny, and the tattoos crawled up his neck, disappearing beneath his jaw.
I lingered, studying how the designs curved over muscle. There was something about tattoos, about the art, the rebellion, the story behind every line that always got to me.
I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to trace those lines, to ask about the meaning behind each one.
I kept scrolling.
Another shot: a guy in a gym, sweat darkening the ink on his body, a mischievous grin half-hidden by a phone.
His captions were always cocky, sometimes bordering on unhinged, but there was a playfulness to it that made me smile.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed; the comments section was a flood of fire emojis and thirsty replies. I never commented, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t look.
Sometimes I even saved the photos as “art references,” but I knew the truth. There was something magnetic about men like this.
Men who wore their stories on their skin, who looked dangerous and fun and a little bit wild.
I scrolled past a reel, tattoo needles buzzing, a close-up of a hand gripping a client’s jaw as the artist worked on a throat tattoo.
The caption was a joke about trust and pain tolerance, but my mind wandered to letting someone that close to begin with, trusting them with something so permanent.
Sometimes, when I was bored or lonely, I’d fall down rabbit holes, searching for things just to see what came up. It was always the same: men with inked hands, necks, knuckles, ribs.
There was a raw honesty to it, a kind of confidence I envied.
I wondered if people ever looked at me and saw anything that bold, or if I’d always be the soft, fashionable girl who painted flowers and dressed up for her followers.
I tucked my phone under my chin, letting my mind wander.
I liked the idea of someone who didn’t fit the mold. Someone who was a little dangerous, a little unpredictable, who could make me feel safe and desired at the same time.
