A sudden blur comes across my vision. Maize is waving her hand, trying to get my attention.

"What is it?" I say, snapping myself back to reality. 

"I should be the one asking that. I've been talking to the air for a while now," Maize comments and takes a huge bite of her burger.

Ketchup stains the corner of her lips as she chews. How she messes up to eat a burger at our age is a curiosity but that does not take away the thoughts that have been whirling in my head since yesterday.

"Sorry," I reply.

My fork swirls to the spaghetti that is almost untouched. I continue to rack my brain but there's still nothing — not a single spark of an idea on what to draw for my painting class. I should be glad we only have lectures this morning. If we have a practical class, I doubt I can make a decent drawing that won't embarrass me.

"You're blanking out again," Maize says and pokes my cheek. "Is something bothering you?"

I shake my head and continue eating.

"You know, it's not bad to let out your thoughts. Come on, I'm all ears. I'm a blabbermouth but I bet ya I'm a good listener."

My mouth struggles to open. Her eager eyes are directed at me but sometimes it's difficult to open up. "It's just..."

"Just what?" she prompts when I take my time to organize my thoughts.

"It's just I don't know what to do for Painting I." My voice grows lower by the end of the sentence as I avoid my eyes.

I hate letting people know what I can't do. I want to be seen as full of assurance and confidence, not like a slow-witted and talentless girl — which I really am.

But Maize is so good at goading the words in my mouth. She's been like that ever since we met, making me spill my secrets from the short term we have known each other.

She drops the burger to her plate and harshly wipes her mouth while looking at me incredulously. "For real?"

I nod, glancing down at my own food.

"I was expecting the worst, to be honest. I might not be the best to give you advice but come on, girl. Chill! We still have months to go before the deadline."

"Yeah, then you just blink and it's already the deadline," I retort.

"Geez, are you really such a pessimist?"

I stay silent and think of what to do. I wish I can be carefree like Maize but when it comes to painting, I can never do that.

"Fine, fine." She props her chin with both hands. "Why don't you tell me your biggest concern?"

"The topic, of course," I answer, my forefinger tapping the table. "Just what type of love is it? Should it be defying the surface-level kind of love or showcasing the ones that penetrate to the deepest of our soul?"

"Maybe something you feel comfortable with?"

"No. Professor Lind said to impress her and I'm stumped on what type of love she'll like."

She captures my gaze with a wide smile on her face. "I don't think that's it. Isn't it basic knowledge that we shouldn't let others dictate our art?"

"So why do we even have themes if that's the case?" I counter.

A short giggle stumbles from her lips. "Are you really asking me that?"

"I'd love to hear your opinion."

"Well, this is coming from an avid fan of art. My parents are collectors and I've been exposed to countless forms and types of art. You can say, I've seen it all. Do you know why I love your family's work among the rest? It's how you interpret the world in your paintings."

My mind becomes stuck on 'you.' I cannot discern if she is really including me in my 'family' because, for all I know, I seldom attend social events and I've been low-key my whole life. I'm not that assuming to even think I'm on the same level as them.

"Themes exist but it doesn't mean it orders what should be done specifically. It's only a general idea where it's still up to the artist to create something out of it without the hindrance of others' opinions, right?" She clicks her tongue and leans back. "Geez, now you're making me all serious."

My mouth tugs to one side as the atmosphere lightens from her last sentence. "Quite a surprise, in fact, but you make a good point."

"Now, now. That's making me feel like you never think I can be serious."

A chuckle escapes my mouth. Am I that lucky to have a roommate that has a knack to cheer me up?

🎨 🎨 🎨

The mood that has been lifted previously dampens as I stand in front of the door, swallowing big gulps of air.

The whole afternoon is Foundation Class which means a whole day with Terrence. 'Why did they start this whole joke of taking a picture together?'

Maybe I'll just take a picture and hit the road. I'm sure there are a lot of empty studios in the EAF Building. If not, I can just go back to my dorm.

I take a deep breath and knock with a little hope that he's not here. However, the clamor and incoming footsteps prove otherwise.

The door swings open and Mr. Perfect appears with a not-so-perfect look. A dark blue grease smears right above his jaw. There are colorful smudges of paint splashed on his black apron. Under it is a matching black shirt that has obviously transformed into dark gray, with how washed out it was just like his bleached ripped jeans.

'That's new...'

He's one of the people that never get messy even dealing with buckets of paint. This disorderly outfit is something I never expect from him. We have different classes this morning but I'm sure this is not what he will wear outside.

"Hey! Good timing," he says and moves away to let me in.

"Hi."

"I already prepared an easel for you. Feel free to use that one."

"Uh, thanks?" I don't have any plans to stay though.

Nonetheless, I walk in and follow as he leads me to my station.

"It's old but it's a trusted brand. If you want, you can also bring your own," he continues but the dirt on his face really bothers me. It's just so weird to see him as less impeccable.

"You have paint on your face," I interrupt before he can talk.

"Ah, thanks." He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes it away. I almost jump to my feet when he draws his face closer. "Still there?"

I bite the insides of my cheek as I shake my head. Now that his face is just like usual, I can't help but avoid it and look around.

We are opposite each other at a safe distance not to cross our personal space. My brow arches when another artist's apron, laying on top of the stool, comes to my attention. There's also an empty table on the side that I haven't seen yesterday.

"You can put your things here," he states. "There are also organizers on the drawers for your painting materials. If you lack anything, just grab things on my shelf."

All those words that left his mouth are spoken in such a casual tone and there's no obvious change in his annoyingly chummy face. If not for that, I may have assumed he is too overly eager to have me here.

'Is this really the same bratty jerk I know?'

Contrary to what I initially planned, I find myself laying out my sketchpad and my pencil case on the side table. I hate to admit but his studio is up to my taste. Neutral color scheme, well-lit room, and properly laid-out furniture, which are actually quite efficient. The stool is adjustable so I can use it with the easel or the desk.

Popping my earphones, my hands move in the plain sheet as if it has been injected with inspiration. Rough lines fill the paper every minute ticking.

I completely lose awareness of my surroundings until a shadow looms over my sketchpad. I quickly close the sketchpad and turn to the jerk standing behind me.

"Why are you here?" My eyes squint as my fingers tighten on my drawing.

"I'm calling you since a while ago but your music's too loud I can even hear it here. Swiftie fan?" His lips curl while he looks down at me.

"What do you care?" I retort and the automatic response to slap off the smile on his face resurfaces.

"Do you still do doodles?" He eases to another topic that just aggravates me more.

'What doodles?!' My drawings may not be on par with him but this burst of imagination seldom happens and he just ruins it by saying it's doodles? Isn't that word meant for kids' drawings who are finding their way with art and not a teenager who has been studying art for years?

I stand up, meeting those black eyes that seem to suck every soul of the person he locks his gaze with. I flip the pages, full of rashness, to show my point and shove the pad right in front of his face.

"They're sketches," I mutter in between gritted teeth.

"The lines are too abstract to make out of what you want to portray. For an artist, even a sketch should be worthy to be displayed," he states and my blood boils.

"That's only for people like you! It's because you're the genius that you are so your sketches are sought after. Unlike me, why would they care for a sketch of some random artist? So can you just mind your own business because not everyone can be a prodigy overflowing with talent and creativity?"

He seems taken aback and so am I. I have not meant to burst out my frustrations. It's our second meeting here in school yet I'm already acting out of spite.

"I'm—"

"You're right. It's because it's me..." It is almost a whisper and before I can apologize, he turns his back while I become stuck by the tone of his voice.

The words he just spoke always come off as a show of his arrogance but the way he says it earlier makes me apprehensive.

Instead of returning to my seat, I take wide strides toward him.

"Uh, you know what? I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of it," I mumble hastily.

"It's okay. You're just saying your opinion." Or so he says but the smile that reflects on his face does not even brighten the dimness in his eyes. Why does he look like an abandoned puppy? This is so not him!

"Maybe let's take a break? Do you want anything? My treat," I say, trying to heave the growing depressing atmosphere.

"No need."

"Are you sure?" I try to confirm but deep inside hoping he'll refuse. "Then I'll just go back to the dorm. Should we take a picture now?"

"What?" his voice raises and clears his throat. "I mean, it's not even time yet. We still have 4 pm before the foundation class ends."

I have not known he has a teacher's pet attitude. Leo says no one seriously takes the Foundation Class. It's basically our free time to do whatever. It's up to us if we want to be productive just as long as we will submit the requirements.

The only problem is the new rule to take pictures with our 'buddy' at every meeting to be made into logbooks or scrapbooks and passed along with the quarter project.

"I want to rest early," I say but only I know the real reason.

I just don't want to stay with him while feeling a little guilty from my words earlier.

"Alright."

"Nice." I take my phone and slide the camera open.

"Wait," he says before I can even point the lens toward us. "I have to change."

"What?"

"Give me a minute."

My forehead wrinkles as he dashes to the toilet inside his studio while I'm left with a mouth hanging open. It does take several minutes before he exits with completely different clothes.

Gone with the messy look, he displays a high-class college student. For a guy, he dresses with the trend and has the looks to complement it.

A pinstripe sky blue polo shirt is overlayed by a darker shade of a knitted vest. The front side of his top is tucked into white pleated slacks. Now I see why he has to change. With that pants, it'll be a miracle if it does not get dirtied in a single day.

"Can we use my phone?" He says as he advances toward me.

I raise my phone. "I'd rather we use mine."

If the shot is ugly, I can delete it or add some filters later. Terrence may have an eye for art but I don't trust my photos with him.

"Alright then." He inches closer and the sides of our faces are mere centimeters.

I back away right off the bat. "You hold it. You're taller." I push my phone to him while also giving myself more distance away from his body.

"Got it." His fingers touch mine as he takes away the phone. The fleeting contact speeds up the beating in my chest in an instant.

He leans again so we can fit in the screen and I have to put up with it. But, the sound of my heart is too close to my ears.

"The camera, Remy." With our proximity, his voice is quieter, sending me goosebumps.

I badly want to smack my head to stop this betrayal of my body. 'What is this overreaction?!'

"Smile," he says.

My lips quiver as I force myself to tilt them. He snaps a few more shots and hands them to me.

"Thanks. I gotta go." I snatch my bag and disappear from his sight, never to reveal the deep crimson creeping into my cheeks.