When Love Lost Its Color

"No. It's too stiff." Ronan Black, my boyfriend of three years, frowned in frustration and tossed down his paintbrush.

"There's not a single sketch with any soul in it."

A classmate beside him looked confused. "How is that possible? Your paintings with Isolde as the model always had such beautiful lighting."

The words stabbed straight through my heart, but I stood there frozen, saying nothing.

Ronan wiped his hands and looked at me with undisguised disgust.

"Forget it. I'm not painting anymore. You just don't have any artistic sense. No matter what you paint, it always looks cheap and mediocre."

With that, he turned toward the wealthy girl who had just walked into the studio.

Without the slightest hesitation, he took out the set of rare paints I'd spent three months waiting tables to buy.

He picked up his palette knife, and his eyes instantly became focused and almost feverish.

"Turn your face just a little. Yes, right there. Perfect…"

I stood quietly in the corner, watching the effortless chemistry between the two of them.

Suddenly, I remembered something from years ago.

I had once asked Ronan the same question.

"Why do certain parts of your paintings always seem to glow?"

Back then, he had smiled as he washed the paint residue from my fingertips.

"Because a painting comes from the heart. When you love someone, every stroke you make becomes beautiful."

Now, I finally understood.

He didn't love me anymore.

We had once agreed that I would go with him to an ordinary state university in Boston.

But now, it was time to pick up my own brush and chase the future I wanted.

I stood outside the red-brick archway of St. Jude High School, holding two cups of coffee that had already gone cold.

Rainwater streamed down my faded old coat, splashing into the puddles at my feet.

I wasn't carrying an umbrella.

The last twenty dollars I had left had just been spent on Ronan's favorite French croissants.

Warm orange light spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the art studio. Through the rain-streaked glass, I watched a completely different world inside.

Ronan Black stood in front of his easel.

His signature blond hair was slightly wavy, and he was wearing the custom shirt I'd paid for by waiting tables for two months.

At that moment, he carefully lifted the lid of a black velvet-lined wooden box.

Inside was a rare set of Winsor & Newton master-grade oil paints.

They were the result of my blood, sweat, and tears.

They had been bought with the money I'd saved one dollar at a time for ninety straight days, with hands that had spent so long submerged in dishwater that they had become raw and swollen.

They were supposed to be his eighteenth birthday present.

I had bought them so he could compete in the national youth art competition.

But now, he was holding the box out with both hands and giving it to Mireille Laurent.

Mireille was the well-known rich girl at our school. Her father was a Wall Street hedge fund manager.

She wore an expensive cashmere sweater. She lazily swept her red hair aside, covered her mouth with one hand, and let out a delighted little gasp before picking up a tube of cobalt-blue paint.

"Ronan, this is way too expensive. I heard you can't even buy this set anymore."

Her voice drifted through the half-open ventilation window.

Ronan smiled casually.

"Only the purest colors deserve someone who truly understands art, Mireille. You've given me so much inspiration."

"But…"

Mireille blinked innocently.

"I heard Isolde bought these for you with the money she earned working part-time. She worked so hard for it. Won't she be upset if she finds out?"

I stood in the rain, letting my fingertips slowly go numb from the cold.

I stared at Ronan's profile, waiting for his answer.

For the past three years, I had put down my own brush just to support his pursuit of art.

I paid for his supplies, his rent, even his meals.

I used to think I was his only muse.

Ronan gave a soft scoff.

"Isolde? What does she know about art? She's just some waitress who can't even hold a palette properly."

"Using these paints on her mediocre work would be a complete waste. They belong with you. Only then can these colors have a soul."

There was no shouting.

No confrontation.

Only something that had been stretched tight for three years finally snapped in the cold rain without making a sound.

I looked down at my own hands.

They were rough, the skin peeling from years of soaking them in dishwater.

Inside the studio, Mireille was playing with the paint tubes using her perfectly manicured French nails.

To Ronan, everything I'd sacrificed wasn't love.

It was just something cheap he could use whenever he wanted.

For the first time, even being heartbroken felt like a waste of time.

I walked over to the trash can and threw away the coffee and croissants in my hands.

Then I pulled out my phone.

The rainwater on the screen made it difficult to use, but I quickly opened my college application portal.

Just a few hours ago, I had still planned to accept an offer from an ordinary state university in Boston.

Because that was the only school Ronan's grades were good enough for.

Two weeks ago, I'd even shoved my acceptance letter from the Rhode Island School of Design into the very back of a drawer.

All because I wanted to stay behind and take care of him.

I'd spent three years throwing everything I had at a selfish bastard.

And now, it took me less than three minutes.

Rhode Island School of Design — Painting.

I clicked "Accept Offer and Pay Deposit."

Confirm.

Submit.

A green "Success" appeared on the screen.

I slowly exhaled a cloud of white breath.

Before I could even lock my phone, it vibrated.

A new email appeared at the top of my screen.

It was from RISD Admissions.

I opened it.

"Congratulations! You are officially a student of the Rhode Island School of Design. New student orientation will begin in 14 days. We look forward to welcoming you to Providence."

I stared at those words while the cold rain hit the back of my hand.

The corners of my lips finally lifted into the faintest smile.

Fourteen days.

Only fourteen days until I left Boston for good.

Fourteen days until I left that parasite behind.

There was no heartbreak.

Only a kind of exhausted relief.

It felt as if I'd finally taken off a weight that had been pressing down on me for three years.

I let out another slow breath and slipped my phone into my pocket.

But my numb fingers accidentally pulled out my sketchbook with it.

It fell into a half-flooded puddle beside my feet and flipped open.

Just as I bent down to pick it up—

A large black umbrella silently opened above my head, shielding me from the rain.

I looked back in surprise.

A young man stood behind me in a dark black coat.

The minimalist cut spoke of understated luxury, completely out of place against the noisy, run-down high school.

Even standing in the rain, he carried himself with effortless composure.

His cold blue eyes were lowered toward the half-finished charcoal sketch of a Gothic cathedral dome lying on the ground.

He bent down slightly and picked it up with long, slender fingers.

His movements were gentle.

"The tension in your lines is remarkable. Your perspective completely breaks free from traditional constraints."

His low voice carried a distinct London accent and sounded unusually clear against the rain.

"Your instinct for light and shadow is a thousand times better than that idiot inside who's wasting all that paint."

I froze.

For three years, I had grown used to Ronan putting me down day after day.

I'd almost started believing that I really was talentless.

The man pulled a pure white handkerchief from his coat pocket, wiped the water from the cover, and handed the sketchbook back to me.

"Don't let mediocre people stain your talent."

He looked straight into my eyes.

His voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable weight behind it.

I took the sketchbook.

My fingertips accidentally brushed his palm, and that sudden warmth felt startlingly clear in the cold rain.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He said nothing else.

He simply gave a slight nod before turning and getting into a black Maybach waiting quietly in the mist.

I didn't know who he was.

And I didn't care.

I just held my sketchbook tightly and walked back into the rain.

This time, I kept my back straight.

Goodbye, Ronan.