Six years ago
"No way!", her sharp voice gives me a headache.
I paced under the oak trees of the college courtyard, my grip on the phone tightened. "I don't want to be a doctor, Mom. I'm not like Dad, I want to be an artist," I said, my voice thick with frustration."Aris Hale, don't you dare raise your voice at me," my mother's voice snapped through the speaker.
"I will forgive you if you agree to withdraw from that damned art course."
"B..but I don't want to. I really want to paint mum you know right how much I love to.."
She cuts me through halfway, her voice dripping with disapproval. "Aris I am disappointed in you.", she cuts the phone before I could even utter something.
Maybe I should head home and talk my way out. Maybe? I picked up my sketchbook from the shade of the tree with scribblings of my surroundings, the sunset. However, I stopped in my tracks, running a hand through my hair as the weight of my name hung in the air. Hale. A name my parents thought carried legacy, expectations-ones I had no interest in fulfilling. My father Richard Hale, he's a first class doctor who owns the Hale's hospital, one of the best hospitals of the city. Whereas, my mum Evelyn Hawthorne Hale a famous advocate, with a strong willed traditional character wants me to fit in her so called "morals" to become successful in my life like her and dad.
Before another thought could fill my mind, my gaze caught something-or rather, someone. A boy. He looks the same age as me of maybe a bit older. He's standing next to a group of girls. One of the girls giggling at something the boy says. He's handsome. He is basking in the almost set Sun, his hair glittering like gold. I bet he's the most beautiful man I have ever seen. I feel a blush creeping on my neck.
I decide to leave before I act on my intrusive thoughts and end up embarrassing myself.
Present
"So the documents regarding the renovation of the academy are ready?", I speak with an excited tone.
"Yes, dear", Mrs Hiddleston speaks in her motherly tone.
"Oh I can't thank you enough Charlotte!"
"You need not to. I am just doing my job."
"You're too kind madam. You should learn to give yourself some credit."
I can hear Mrs Hiddleston's heart warming laugh from the other side of the phone, she gives when she's flattered.
Noises can be heard from the other side of the phone. It must the kids.
"Miss the children are here. I'll call later. Have a good day."
"Thank you Charlotte. Have a good day for yourself too."
Tristan is back from the kitchen by the time the call ends. He has a beautiful smile plastered on his face.
"What's making you so happy?", I ask smiling. His smile is surely contagious.
"Rafael is coming back from abroad the next month."
"Wow that's good to hear. You must be missing him so much."
"Yeah, I do. I still don't understand why did he suddenly decided to leave."
"Well didn't it turned out well for him. He's super famous now. Everyone knows him. He's the best in his field."
"Yes you're right."
Rafael Sinclair, Tristan's younger brother. He's the same age as mine. Twenty six. I have met him before, a few times, in college. That was five years ago, when he decided to leave for London to pursue photography. And now there's not a single soul who doesn't knows about Rafael in the field of photography.
I guess there was a series of photos he took that made him famous, of a woman I guess. His muse. Yes! That's the name of that series "Muse".
Six years ago
"It's beautiful dear. A true masterpiece." Mr. Anderson exclaims, his eyes lightning up with joy and maybe proudness. He tries his best to not run his fingers on the canvas but knows better not to.
A painting, "The Sun", a name I gave it when I started painting it months ago after my encounter with the golden boy.
Well he's my senior. Tristan Sinclair from the literature department. He's quite popular in the campus. I have never talked to him and how could I? Every time I am near him in a circumference of even five metre, I start to sweat and feel all my blood rushing on my face. But I have fallen for this man , I mean how can someone possibly deny his irresistible charms with kindness and gentleness like a lamb. He's the best man around.
I called it "The Sun" but it wasn't the Sun, it was Tristan. It couldn't be someone else other than him.The painting wasn't just a sunset. It was alive with emotion, every stroke carrying a piece of something I couldn't quite put into words.
A lone figure stood beneath the fiery sky, their silhouette strong and grounded against the brilliance above. The sunset spread across the canvas in bold, sweeping streaks of gold, crimson, and amber, the colors bleeding into one another like fire consuming the horizon. Around the edges, cooler shades of lavender and indigo softened the intensity, hinting at the quiet moments that follow even the most blinding light.
The figure wasn't detailed—just a shadow etched against the glow, their stance straight and steady, head slightly tilted as if in quiet contemplation. Something about the way they stood felt familiar, though I couldn't say why. If one would know them personally, they can figure it out that I painted him. Their hair was tousled by the wild wind yet it looked like gold snow flakes in the air.
It wasn't about the figure alone, though. The painting expressed how I looked upon them. How I perceived them and fell in love with a star. A star which burnt itself to give light to others yet goes unnoticed just because it's a everyday scenario. It doesn't gives them justice right?
I stared at it longer than I should have, trying to untangle why the figure felt so significant. It wasn't someone I'd set out to paint, yet something about them lingered in my mind like a name on the tip of my tongue.
To anyone else, it was just a sunset, just a figure. But to me, it was something more—something I wasn't quite ready to admit.