Mine for a Moment

The soft rattling of the spray can in my hands steals away my every thought, momentarily dulling the heartache that led me to these deserted streets in the first place. My heart thunders in my ears, quietening everything else as I put the final touches on my latest artwork.

My stomach tightens as I step back to take in the final result—a realistic depiction of a girl leaning against the wall of the old apartment block I’m standing in front of, her head thrown back and her eyes squeezed closed as tears stream down her face, leaving mascara tracks on her cheeks. To her side, the walls look broken up to reveal a couple in their living room, dancing as they smile at each other like nothing else exists.

It won’t take my fans long to realize that there are countless photos in the background, some of the three of them, but most of them just of our crying girl and the man that’s now holding tightly onto someone else. They’ll look at it, and maybe they’ll feel my pain, but they won’t understand—they won’t know that this is the very same building, the same apartment I thought I’d live in with Theo. This is the culmination of years of unrequited love, of waiting too long, only to watch my last chance slip through my fingers.

People will walk past, and perhaps they’ll pause and stare, but they won’t realize the significance behind my piece. They won’t know that I’ve stood here with those same tears in my eyes, pretending it doesn’t hurt to watch my best friend love one of our friends the way I wish he’d love me.

“Hey, you!”

Fear rushes through me in the moments before I look over my shoulder, my mind not quite capable of deciphering what I’m seeing. It’s all wrong—the time and place, the desperation written on his face as he charges toward me, his breathing labored. Archer Harrison. My brother’s best friend and the one man I can’t get caught by.

I jump into action and throw a second glance at my supplies, my heart aching at the thought of leaving them behind. The mere cost of it all makes me hesitate for a moment too long before I turn and attempt to run, giving Archer the chance to catch up and wrap his hand around my wrist.

“Please,” he says, his voice so familiar yet so foreign all at once. I’ve never heard him sound so beguiled, so frenzied. “I’ve been looking for you for over a year.”

I look over my shoulder, more relieved than ever that I’m not just wearing a face mask and a crimson wig but a hoodie too. There’s no way he could recognize me in this getup, but Archer has always been oddly observant. He’s perhaps the only person other than my brother who truly sees me, without judging, never allowing his prejudices to distort who I am. If I linger too long or say the wrong thing, he’ll know.

“I only have one question,” he says, his voice softer now, placating. “I won’t ask you who you are or why you keep your identity hidden. I’m not after your work or trying to profit off you like so many others have. So will you please hear me out?”

I know I should pull my wrist out of his warm hand. I should turn and run, and never look back, but when he looks at me like that, I can’t deny him. Archer has always been steadfast and confident, an unshakable force in my life, so to find him standing here like only I hold the answers to questions that keep him up at night leaves me shaken. Against my better judgment, I nod.

He breathes a sigh of relief and steps closer, his gaze searching. Something crosses his face, and I hold my breath. It isn’t quite recognition, but it’s familiarity, like some part of him realizes he knows me, but he can’t quite place me. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and I draw a shaky breath.

“The Ballerina,” he whispers. “It was your first piece, about eighteen months ago. She looked just like someone I used to know, and I have to ask…who is she? Why her, and why then? Did you know her, or have you seen her?”

His voice breaks, and my heartache takes a new form, spreading from my chest to every single nerve ending. My breathing becomes shallow, and I look down, unable to face him. I never stopped to think that my attempts to alleviate my own pain would in turn inflict it upon him.

Eighteen months.

It’s not me he’s been looking for.

It’s her. Still.

The plea in his eyes is evident, his grip tightening as silence stretches between us. I can’t tell him that both he and my brother, Ezra, are the reason behind that piece—not without him figuring out who I am. I remember the day I painted her across one of the walls in our hometown; it was the first time I ever did street art, and I haven’t dared to paint on any of the buildings so close to home again for fear of giving away my identity.

I’d come home from college for my mother’s birthday, about a year after Tyra disappeared without a trace, and both Ezra and Archer were pretending she wasn’t on their minds despite the devastation written all over their faces. It hurt to watch them avoid so much as mentioning her when it was the first time in years she wasn’t with us on Mom’s birthday. She deserved to be missed, to have her memory be honored.

So I painted her dancing across a stage in the Swan Lake costume she used to dream of wearing someday. Because that’s how I needed to remember her: as the shining light she was in our lives. Tyra wasn’t just Archer’s girlfriend—she was Ezra’s best friend and the big sister I never had. She was my biggest supporter, and the only one who truly believed my art was valuable and worth pursuing. Painting her felt like honoring her, and though it didn’t close the gaping hole in my heart, it took away the edge of my pain.

It’d been an act of rebellion, and I’d known painting her in such a highly visible spot would force Ezra and Archer to face her every single time they drove home, but I did it anyway. I didn’t want her disappearance to be her legacy, but I never meant for my mural to keep haunting Archer for so long. It isn’t what she would’ve wanted.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. “She’s gone. All we have left are memories and dreams that won’t come true.” None of us want to admit it, but the fact that she’s been missing for over eighteen months means we likely won’t ever see her again. We lost her, and we’re all just trying to avoid acknowledging it.

His eyes widen, and I realize I said the wrong thing, giving away that I knew her, that the ballerina I painted was Tyra. “Who are you?” he asks, his voice terse.

I shake my head and yank my wrist out of his grip, wishing I hadn’t said anything at all. I look back once before I rush away, grateful he doesn’t follow me.This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.