This is directly continued from mira, chapter I. It’s pretty important that you read that first if you haven’t already.
TRIGGER WARNING: this story includes some very dark themes including suicide, violence and a couple of other things. Reader discretion is advised, if you’re not comfortable with that sort of thing, probably avoid this one.
As I continued to be lost in thought, going through how Mira had slowly rebuilt me from the ground back up to the man I was before, and then higher; through how we’d become friends, then gotten closer and closer until one night, somewhere far from the city, on a hilltop, she leant in and kissed me, signaling the start of something new between us; yet, somehow, I couldn’t find a trigger, couldn’t find a particular reason that started this downward spiral that we had seemingly been on for God knows how long now. I couldn’t find a reason, but I did rediscover the feeling; the slowly, yet constantly mounting discomfort, uncertainty, fear; the understanding that something isn’t going right, the inability to grasp what exactly that is; the ever-weakening hope that it’ll pass on its own. It was all so gradual – fewer affectionate glances, fewer random touches of my hand, fewer declarations of love, less warmth. But why? I wasn’t yet piecing together the sinister pattern. For the moment, I just sat there, staring off into space.
Suddenly, I was pulled out of my reminiscing by the sight of Mira finally reemerging from the bathroom. Her makeup would still have looked great to someone not as familiar as I was; to me though, it was obvious that she had been crying, and re-done it to hide the evidence. My first instinct was to go over to her and ask what the matter was, but then our eyes met for a brief moment, and the look she gave me was enough to instantly wipe that idea from my mind. I really didn’t understand what I’d done to make her this mad at me, but then again, that wasn’t a first with Mira. She was a singularly impenetrable person at times. But somehow, I loved that about her too. God, why on Earth was I like this?
Then, a moment later, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chamberlain approach her, so I turned around instinctively; and I was shocked by how her demeanor changed. Her whole body straightened out, and her face immediately hastily lost its uncertainty and weariness, lighting up; her previously pale cheeks flushed with color, as she introduced herself to him and they started talking. A painful flash of heat ran through me as I watched them. She was just really eager for approval from the big flashy star, nothing more than that, I told myself; I didn’t have to worry. And yet worry I did. I hated how close she was to him, how she was smiling at him, how he was not even hiding the fact he was checking her out. He was smiling at her, grinning with that surface-level, self-important charm that all the actors in this city had; the sparkle from his veneers didn’t even come close to reaching his eyes. His eyes were different from anyone I’d ever seen before; he barely even felt human, more like a calculated predator sizing up its pray. His glance wasn’t light, no, his gaze raked over her body with the cold hunger with which a lion sizes up a zebra that is about to become its dinner, ripped apart mercilessly by its sharp teeth. And she practically seemed to already be painting the stripes onto herself.
No. Shut up, Jack, you’re just being paranoid, I told myself, shaking my head; this is the kind of shit she gets mad at you over in the first place. I stood up and went to pour myself another drink, anything for a distraction from Mira interacting with Chamberlain and the thoughts that invaded my mind as a result. I hadn’t drunk more than a glass in one night since that very fateful night, but I was getting desperate. Holding back tears, I let the bitter liquid spill down my throat; it would mix perfectly with the bitterness in my heart, I thought.
I tried searching for Liz, clutching at the mental anchor of the only other person I knew in this rancid party; when my eyes found her, though, to my dismay, she had been joined by her boyfriend Casper, and they were making out in a corner of the room. Despite most of me detesting the idea of showing your love off for this vapid, soulless gathering, a part of me wished that Mira and I could be like them, instead of…no, dammit, Jack, don’t start thinking about Mira again. Just leave her alone, she clearly doesn’t want to speak to you right now.
Yet, despite any coaching I was trying to give myself, my mind, and eyes, kept drifting across the room to where Mira was still talking to Holden; so, finding no other solution, I stood up and attempted to break out of the shell I had placed myself in thus far. Within minutes, I found myself knee-deep in a conversation with a group of strangers, whose topic was drifting nauseatingly, like a ship with a drunk captain, through things I had no idea about, or interest in: the latest YSL collection, assorted celebrity dating drama, whether or not Rihanna would ever release music again, and the Nets’ loss to the Knicks the previous night. I operated purely on intuition and context clues, and shockingly managed to fit in pretty well. I suspected it was because nobody was really listening to each other’s words, too caught up thinking about what their own next input would be.
It was a very tiring affair. As much as I thought I was holding up, I could feel the dull, uncomfortable weight of participating in this empty conversation. How did people do this consistently, I thought, when I was having this much trouble tolerating it even once. I slowly moved my glance around the group, as we awkwardly talked around a debate on whether Taylor Swift was overrated or not, trying to read their expressions and failing miserably. People in these social circles were way better than me at hiding how they felt. Could they tell I was faking it and just keeping me there to be nice to me?
Oh, who was I kidding. I didn’t care what these people thought about me. I didn’t even remember what any of their names were. Like, the guy talking now, what was his name? Was it Daniel? Was it David? Who cares. No, I just could not build up the strength to pry my reeling mind away from Mira. Among all the voices in the room, I could still hear hers; I couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, but I knew it was her, from the subtle little intonations that I knew so well, and loved so painfully much.
Where was it – that point where this started going downhill? It felt like the reasons had all disappeared, but the feeling remained – that part of me that was now permanently unsatiated, the pocket in my heart that I had made for Mira’s love that was now only being filled up around halfway on a good day, leaving the remainder aching with a cold, depressing emptiness. But how did this happen?
I sunk inescapably back into reminiscing; occasionally, I’d snap back out to deliver a dry “oh yeah!” or “hmm” to the slowly dying embers of the conversation; but really, my mind was busy rolling back the tape, holding every frame up to the light to see which was the first one where the colors faded in our relationship. I thought back to the past month – constant up and down, frequent fallouts, the most distant Mira had ever been. I moved back to the last six months – the gradual deterioration of joint habits, the cooling of glances between us. Then a year – hints of declining affection, shorter conversations, less time together. Then back to the beginning…no. That’s too far. At the beginning, all was well between us. I was in a terrible state, of course, but it was all worth it – she was kind, caring, tolerated me at my worst and uplifted me at my best. One moment in particular stood out in my mind…
(…)
I added the final brushstroke and sat back, looking proudly at the canvas. To most, this would’ve been a moment like any other in the life of an artist – just another painting, nothing more. But to me, this was everything. A gorgeous landscape sprawled across the canvas – a lakeside forest, cradled tenderly by the fragile light of the moon. And not only that – at a closer inspection, there was a recurring motif throughout the painting – the fragile features of Mira’s face were present in the details: in the craters of the moon, the shadows of the trees, the shimmering water of the lake. Every inch of the canvas was an ode to her – to how she’d saved me, built me back up again, brick by brick, and how grateful I was to her for it, and how in love with her.
She walked in just then, light and angelic as always. Her soft, gentle spirit always seemed to light up every room she stepped into; she carried with her an air of care and support that had become home to me since we’d been together.
“Mira, look!” – I said, beaming, pointing my paintbrush towards the easel, – “I finished a painting! For the first time in years! And it’s all thanks to you, love. You’ve helped me heal like nothing or nobody else ever had. I feel like myself again, finally.”
“Oh my God, Jack, that’s amazing!” – she exclaimed, rushing forward and throwing her arms around me, holding me close in a tight embrace, – “I’m so happy you’re getting better, and I’m so glad that I’ve been able to help you.”
I just held onto her, stroking her hair with all the immeasurable affection I felt for her, and all the gratitude. Somehow, in my mind, it had all become perfect. I was alive, more alive than ever before; I was back to doing what I loved, and I actually had something positive to channel onto canvases, instead of meekly forcing myself to bleed my bottomless pain through my paintbrush. And I was in love, so in love with the most amazing girl I’d ever met, the woman who had saved my life. And she loved me back just as much.
Wait. No. Something wasn’t right.
All of a sudden, I could see it: her face fell slightly when she saw the canvas, the paintbrush in my hand and the smile on my face; her voice trembled the slightest bit when she congratulated me; her embrace was a little too tight, forced even. And that last sentence she said – “I’m so happy you’re getting better, and I’m so glad that I’ve been able to help you.” When she said those words, her whole face seized up, as if it was physically painful for her to say them. And her eyes…my God, her eyes. Despite her happy face, her eyes reflected subtle notes of disappointment and frustration. Was this...? No, it couldn’t be.
To be continued.
ok so. this was worse than only reading part 1 😭 the cliffhanger !!! you're killing me !!!