I suppose she's not the only one with a stubborn streak.
[He can feel that heat creeping into his face again as Berna prepares to excuse herself, but he supposes he has no reason to hide it from her, flustered though he may be. He raises a fist to cover his mouth as he clears his throat again softly, with only the faintest bit of playful exasperation in his gaze.
Everyone should be as fortunate as he and Amelia are to have friends like Tara and Berna, really.]
Would you? That would be greatly appreciated, thank you. I will say, it's been lovely getting to properly meet the famous Berna after all these months.
[He's been eating her sandwiches since the start of the semester, after all.]
Of course! I'm very happy I've gotten to make your acquaintance. In fact, this won't be the last time we'll be talking, I'm sure.
Now let's see...
[She takes out her phone to text Amelia. There's no immediate response, but when it arrives, she directs Gale to a room in the back, supposedly part of the show, but it wasn't to be open to the public until later in the evening.
Apparently, as per the deceased's wishes, it was to be seen by one person only...]
[If Gale is right outside the door, a text from Amelia appears. Though brief, it has that trademark weight that comes in certain situations such as the one they're faced with now.]
[Gale can't quite decide if Berna's parting words are a promise or a playful threat— perhaps something of both— but having followed her lead, he pulls out his own phone when he feels it vibrate in his pocket, his brow furrowing slightly at the message he's received.]
Of course. I'll wait here until you say otherwise.
[Though her message had been brief, there is a weight to it that he has, indeed, come to recognize. Whatever is in this room, the context is enough to tell him that it's likely responsible for that weight.]
[It's a conversation that they could easily have face to face, but he suspects that she needs the time to collect herself. Given what he now knows, this day must be even more challenging for her than he initially thought, which was considerably so.]
I've quite enjoyed myself, yes. It's lovely in every sense, both the work and the sentiment. I'm planning to purchase a piece to support the cause.
[Briar would have loved to hear that. But she doesn't know whether she wants to mention that over text, in person, or at all.
She remembers that Gale laid out his pain so plainly in front of her before. It was shameful, embarrassing, but he told her and he never asked anything more from Amelia than to listen.
... Nothing will move forward if she remains as is. She will never move forward if she can't even reciprocate with this part of herself that she's kept hidden so desperately.]
[He doesn't text her back, only wordlessly tucks his phone away in his pocket and enters the room as bidden— his smile has faded to something more tentative, somber, and without preamble, he fulfills her earnest request.
He takes the seat next to herself, clasping his hands together against his knees as he looks ahead to the display. In doing so, he feels something catch in his throat— that she would ask him here is a greater show of trust than anything else she's done up until now.
He glances her way for a brief moment before looking back to the display, at last offering a soft:]
[Amelia sits, dressed in a black linen dress, with her hands on her lap. She's on a bench situated in the middle of the room. Gale's footsteps echo against the floor and she doesn't turn to look at him, not even when he sits next to her. Her eyes are fixed on the last collection that Briar left the world.
Three of the walls are filled with photographs, printed on high-quality canvas of various lengths and widths. From left to right, the eye follows a series of images taken in an ethereal looking forest. The placement of the canvases gives the impression that the viewer is following along with the photographer's camera... No. It's his gaze.
Briar's eyes capture the pale dappled sunlight through the branches and leaves, the gleam of the bubbling stream that run over smooth rocks. In the distance, a streak of red, a smear of white, a halo of color. The further right they look, the closer the young woman in the distance becomes.
She looks like a fairy of the forest, clothed in a near translucent, sleeveless robe, with a crown of various flowers adoring her head. Her red hair is long, past her knees, wild and wavy. Near the beginning, her back is turned and small glimpses of her are seen between the trees.
Briar inches closer in every photo until the very center of the wall, the fairy stands, fists clenched, her long hair hiding half of her face due to a strong gust of wind. The ethereal quality is all but lost in this intimate proximity. There's an emerald fire in her eyes, raw and challenging, and a single tear that can be made out through strands of red.
What are in those eyes? Anger, love, hate, desperation, yearning, a dream that could never be? It's all of those and more captured in that single moment. This was created by not the girl herself, but between her and the artist. Someone saw the beauty in the resentment and sadness and poured his affection into immortalizing it all.
She turns her back towards him again and dashes off. The photos show her as a streak, and then in the final piece, all that's left is an empty forest.
Amelia in the present, stares at the centermost photo of herself from five years ago. Her hands grip the skirt of her dress and when she finally speaks...
No. She can't speak. She hasn't found her voice yet.]
[The arrangement of photos speaks volumes even in the deafening silence between them. Gale can see the path that Briar's gaze had taken, charting a course through the forest in pursuit of the woman who now sat next to him, and when he finds her at the center, those blazing eyes hold a tempest of emotion within them.
How terrible it must be to watch someone you love slip away, knowing the time you have is limited, knowing there is nothing that you can do but to prepare yourself for what life will be like without them. He's experienced loss in his life, but never like that— slow, agonizing, and yet the artist had been intent on capturing every moment they'd had together, holding even the pain of inevitable parting close.
He doesn't know what to say. What can be said? Anything feels like too much, but nothing at all feels cold, leaves the room too empty.
Wordlessly, he reaches a hand out to rest atop her own where she clutches at her skirt. It's a display that demands nothing of her— only offers reassurance, perhaps a sliver of comfort.
[His hand is warm around hers. It slowly tugs her away from that heavy reverie and instead of shying away, she's drawn to it (dangerous, desperate) and she accepts his touch (dangerous, too soon).
Her words find her again and with a forced sort of brevity, says:]
It was cold that day. I hated wearing that dress.
[Amelia's fingers relax.]
I grumbled a lot. Too much. Briar... [It's the first time she's ever said his name in what feels like ages.]
Briar was a great artist, but vague in direction. I was frustrated.
[But obviously it wasn't the conditions that she had mainly taken issue with.]
[He hadn't known Briar, but he considers what the young man might have felt, knowing that his time would soon be up. It was difficult to rest, he imagined, when you wanted to make those moments count. Make memories.
He feels Amelia's fingers relax beneath his touch, and takes care not to insist upon himself, to take more than she's offered. The gesture is not about what he wants, but an offering.]
I imagine artists often have difficulty explaining their vision to others, even those who know them best.
[A brief pause before he addresses the true source of her past frustration— would it even matter now, five years after the fact?]
It sounds like he chose to spend the time he had with you. That mattered more.
[Amelia swallows and tries to control the shakiness in her voice. Remarkably, she does sound calm, if downhearted. She still hasn't moved away from Gale's hand.]
He said something along those lines.
[But she was selfish, impatient, wanting him to do something about his condition and not be so willing to be lead away by death.]
A lot of people cared about him, not just me. What we had between us was... I wanted so much and he gave me all that he had. I just... I don't know. I thought it wasn't enough.
I was... [A shuddery breath, almost a choke.]
I wanted him to get better. I didn't want to hear him talk about how his time would be up.
Gale... I was selfish. I still am. He gave me his time, but I was so... Angry that he couldn't give more.
[When he hears that shudder in his voice, his fingers curl inward, a slight squeeze to her hand as he furrows his brow and looks to her at last, tearing his gaze from the display.]
It isn't wrong to want more, Amelia. There aren't many people who would be able to handle a situation like that with grace. Who would be able to accept that kind of loss before there was no choice but to do so.
[He looks back to the photographs; somehow, it's easier to say all of this without looking directly at her.]
That kind of anger, that selfishness... it's only human.
[She is only human.]
Were you angry at him, or the unfairness of the situation? It's... easier, sometimes, to direct that anger onto those we can see. We get angry because we care about something enough for it to move us, for us to feel something. From what I've seen here today, I don't doubt that he gave you all he had without a moment of regret.
[Even now, she thinks she's being selfish, absorbing his words, showing him the wounds that plagued her from Briar's passing, her stolen night with Gale, and into the present.
But Gale is Gale. He kept giving and it was keeping her afloat.]
... I think what I hated most about myself was... I can't think of a time where I truly considered his feelings.
He was dying. Of course he was scared. He had times where it was lonely even when he was surrounded by others. Even when he accepted it, it must have been sickening to hear me be angry with him as if he never felt any of those things.
[It's been five years. Amelia doesn't think she's trying to seek absolution or forgiveness. And this room tells her that the latter was freely given.
But what now? What now?]
I wish I didn't hurt him.
[And that was all, a lingering wish that could never be fulfilled.]
[His voice is soft as he makes that admission, only steps above a whisper, and once more he finds himself thinking of what it must have been like to be in Briar's place— he can only guess, but he has ever considered himself a student of the human condition, especially these last few years. There was a time for logic and pragmatism, and a time for empathy.
This was soundly the latter.]
We all hurt the people we love. We're too close not to. I was not fortunate enough to know Briar, but it is plain that he knew you inside and out. He wanted you to see this room, just like this, for good reason.
[Perhaps he had been able to look at that anger and understand it for what it truly was. Another form of love, forced by the difficult hand they had been dealt.]
What's done cannot be undone, but this room doesn't look as though it was planned by someone who could not forgive. He understood why you were angry, because he understood you. Perhaps he wanted to be sure that when he was gone, you would forgive yourself, too.
[Amelia knew that in her heart, but she didn't know she needed to hear those words said aloud. It bubbles over and her eyes well up with tears that freely fall from her face. One hand reaches up to wipe them away while the other, the one being touched, clutches Gale's hand.
Relief doesn't follow forgiveness, but it was still a deliverance that Briar gifted to her a final time. Amelia thought she had to changed at all, thought that her heart was closed off and suspicious of other people. But here she sits crying silent tears with a stranger she hid from...
No. Amelia is with Gale, wholly trusting him with this part of her heart, wanting to be vulnerable and seen.]
Gale... I'm... [She chokes down what would have been a sob.]
You didn't have to say any of that. But thank you.
And... I hope I haven't hurt you.
[The night they first met, it could have ended there and she would have left with base desires pettily satisfied. That's all he could have meant to her and she would remain lesser for it.
They're in the present, their pasts having battered and bruised them, but they've made it. And now, Amelia understands in some way, that Gale may be looking at her the way Briar did.]
[The significance of all this isn't lost on him— Amelia was not one to share, and yet she had allowed him to join her here in this moment, allowed him to see her at her most vulnerable. That stifled sob tugs at his heartstrings, makes him want to put both arms around her so that she can cry into his sweater until she has nothing left if she wants to, but he swallows the urge and instead shifts his hand beneath her grip just enough to let their fingers intertwine.
He then reaches into the front pocket of his jacket and pulls out a handkerchief, holding it out to her in offering as he gives a gentle shake of his head.]
You've done no such thing. I'm... better off for having known you.
[Any injuries or misunderstandings at the start had been on both of them— that and coincidence, although he's found himself feeling increasingly grateful for whatever twist of fate had thrown them into one another's paths again, difficult as that shock had been. Life would be quite different if they had simply gone their separate ways and let those text messages slow down and peter out until they stopped coming altogether.
It would have been a far lonelier existence, for one.
Amelia, he now thinks, did not insist upon not liking people because she thought little of them, but because she was protecting herself. When she did like people, like him, she acted as though it was against her better judgment, but if all this time it had been to keep the threat of further loss at arm's length—
[Amelia accepts the handkerchief, dabbing her eyes and wiping her cheeks.]
โI'm of the same mind.
[She's still imperfect, but getting to know Gale and be invested in his story and life made her realize that she a capacity beyond being a professor that furthered the education of large groups. That required precision, planning, and flexibility, but she was able to use professionalism as an excuse to be distant.
Briar fought for his connections until the very end. Amelia needed to do the same.
The atmosphere had been substantial and oppressive, not helped by the enormous photo of her past self gazing at them with her stormy eyes. Somehow, Amelia manages to remark with a strained bemusement:]
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sunfloras2024-01-21 09:17 pm
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[He can feel that heat creeping into his face again as Berna prepares to excuse herself, but he supposes he has no reason to hide it from her, flustered though he may be. He raises a fist to cover his mouth as he clears his throat again softly, with only the faintest bit of playful exasperation in his gaze.
Everyone should be as fortunate as he and Amelia are to have friends like Tara and Berna, really.]
Would you? That would be greatly appreciated, thank you. I will say, it's been lovely getting to properly meet the famous Berna after all these months.
[He's been eating her sandwiches since the start of the semester, after all.]
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Now let's see...
[She takes out her phone to text Amelia. There's no immediate response, but when it arrives, she directs Gale to a room in the back, supposedly part of the show, but it wasn't to be open to the public until later in the evening.
Apparently, as per the deceased's wishes, it was to be seen by one person only...]
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[If Gale is right outside the door, a text from Amelia appears. Though brief, it has that trademark weight that comes in certain situations such as the one they're faced with now.]
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Of course. I'll wait here until you say otherwise.
[Though her message had been brief, there is a weight to it that he has, indeed, come to recognize. Whatever is in this room, the context is enough to tell him that it's likely responsible for that weight.]
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I hope Berna didn't say anything strange.
[She sounds normal enough...?]
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Not in the least. She was pleasantly engaging company, nothing more.
[She'd certainly said a great deal, but nothing he would classify as strange.]
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[There's a sense that Amelia is traveling down this path of conversation, like she needed to focus on something other than what was in that room.]
Do you like the gallery so far?
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I've quite enjoyed myself, yes. It's lovely in every sense, both the work and the sentiment. I'm planning to purchase a piece to support the cause.
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. . .
[Another long minute passes. A notification arrives again.]
You're a bit much. Have I said that lately?
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Am I? Should I apologize? I've always been one to support the arts, and the cause is more than worthy.
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She remembers that Gale laid out his pain so plainly in front of her before. It was shameful, embarrassing, but he told her and he never asked anything more from Amelia than to listen.
... Nothing will move forward if she remains as is. She will never move forward if she can't even reciprocate with this part of herself that she's kept hidden so desperately.]
You can come in then. Just sit next to me.
Please.
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He takes the seat next to herself, clasping his hands together against his knees as he looks ahead to the display. In doing so, he feels something catch in his throat— that she would ask him here is a greater show of trust than anything else she's done up until now.
He glances her way for a brief moment before looking back to the display, at last offering a soft:]
Hi.
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Three of the walls are filled with photographs, printed on high-quality canvas of various lengths and widths. From left to right, the eye follows a series of images taken in an ethereal looking forest. The placement of the canvases gives the impression that the viewer is following along with the photographer's camera... No. It's his gaze.
Briar's eyes capture the pale dappled sunlight through the branches and leaves, the gleam of the bubbling stream that run over smooth rocks. In the distance, a streak of red, a smear of white, a halo of color. The further right they look, the closer the young woman in the distance becomes.
She looks like a fairy of the forest, clothed in a near translucent, sleeveless robe, with a crown of various flowers adoring her head. Her red hair is long, past her knees, wild and wavy. Near the beginning, her back is turned and small glimpses of her are seen between the trees.
Briar inches closer in every photo until the very center of the wall, the fairy stands, fists clenched, her long hair hiding half of her face due to a strong gust of wind. The ethereal quality is all but lost in this intimate proximity. There's an emerald fire in her eyes, raw and challenging, and a single tear that can be made out through strands of red.
What are in those eyes? Anger, love, hate, desperation, yearning, a dream that could never be? It's all of those and more captured in that single moment. This was created by not the girl herself, but between her and the artist. Someone saw the beauty in the resentment and sadness and poured his affection into immortalizing it all.
She turns her back towards him again and dashes off. The photos show her as a streak, and then in the final piece, all that's left is an empty forest.
Amelia in the present, stares at the centermost photo of herself from five years ago. Her hands grip the skirt of her dress and when she finally speaks...
No. She can't speak. She hasn't found her voice yet.]
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How terrible it must be to watch someone you love slip away, knowing the time you have is limited, knowing there is nothing that you can do but to prepare yourself for what life will be like without them. He's experienced loss in his life, but never like that— slow, agonizing, and yet the artist had been intent on capturing every moment they'd had together, holding even the pain of inevitable parting close.
He doesn't know what to say. What can be said? Anything feels like too much, but nothing at all feels cold, leaves the room too empty.
Wordlessly, he reaches a hand out to rest atop her own where she clutches at her skirt. It's a display that demands nothing of her— only offers reassurance, perhaps a sliver of comfort.
She's not alone.]
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Her words find her again and with a forced sort of brevity, says:]
It was cold that day. I hated wearing that dress.
[Amelia's fingers relax.]
I grumbled a lot. Too much. Briar... [It's the first time she's ever said his name in what feels like ages.]
Briar was a great artist, but vague in direction. I was frustrated.
[But obviously it wasn't the conditions that she had mainly taken issue with.]
He should have been resting.
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He feels Amelia's fingers relax beneath his touch, and takes care not to insist upon himself, to take more than she's offered. The gesture is not about what he wants, but an offering.]
I imagine artists often have difficulty explaining their vision to others, even those who know them best.
[A brief pause before he addresses the true source of her past frustration— would it even matter now, five years after the fact?]
It sounds like he chose to spend the time he had with you. That mattered more.
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[Amelia swallows and tries to control the shakiness in her voice. Remarkably, she does sound calm, if downhearted. She still hasn't moved away from Gale's hand.]
He said something along those lines.
[But she was selfish, impatient, wanting him to do something about his condition and not be so willing to be lead away by death.]
A lot of people cared about him, not just me. What we had between us was... I wanted so much and he gave me all that he had. I just... I don't know. I thought it wasn't enough.
I was... [A shuddery breath, almost a choke.]
I wanted him to get better. I didn't want to hear him talk about how his time would be up.
Gale... I was selfish. I still am. He gave me his time, but I was so... Angry that he couldn't give more.
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It isn't wrong to want more, Amelia. There aren't many people who would be able to handle a situation like that with grace. Who would be able to accept that kind of loss before there was no choice but to do so.
[He looks back to the photographs; somehow, it's easier to say all of this without looking directly at her.]
That kind of anger, that selfishness... it's only human.
[She is only human.]
Were you angry at him, or the unfairness of the situation? It's... easier, sometimes, to direct that anger onto those we can see. We get angry because we care about something enough for it to move us, for us to feel something. From what I've seen here today, I don't doubt that he gave you all he had without a moment of regret.
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But Gale is Gale. He kept giving and it was keeping her afloat.]
... I think what I hated most about myself was... I can't think of a time where I truly considered his feelings.
He was dying. Of course he was scared. He had times where it was lonely even when he was surrounded by others. Even when he accepted it, it must have been sickening to hear me be angry with him as if he never felt any of those things.
[It's been five years. Amelia doesn't think she's trying to seek absolution or forgiveness. And this room tells her that the latter was freely given.
But what now? What now?]
I wish I didn't hurt him.
[And that was all, a lingering wish that could never be fulfilled.]
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[His voice is soft as he makes that admission, only steps above a whisper, and once more he finds himself thinking of what it must have been like to be in Briar's place— he can only guess, but he has ever considered himself a student of the human condition, especially these last few years. There was a time for logic and pragmatism, and a time for empathy.
This was soundly the latter.]
We all hurt the people we love. We're too close not to. I was not fortunate enough to know Briar, but it is plain that he knew you inside and out. He wanted you to see this room, just like this, for good reason.
[Perhaps he had been able to look at that anger and understand it for what it truly was. Another form of love, forced by the difficult hand they had been dealt.]
What's done cannot be undone, but this room doesn't look as though it was planned by someone who could not forgive. He understood why you were angry, because he understood you. Perhaps he wanted to be sure that when he was gone, you would forgive yourself, too.
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Relief doesn't follow forgiveness, but it was still a deliverance that Briar gifted to her a final time. Amelia thought she had to changed at all, thought that her heart was closed off and suspicious of other people. But here she sits crying silent tears with a stranger she hid from...
No. Amelia is with Gale, wholly trusting him with this part of her heart, wanting to be vulnerable and seen.]
Gale... I'm... [She chokes down what would have been a sob.]
You didn't have to say any of that. But thank you.
And... I hope I haven't hurt you.
[The night they first met, it could have ended there and she would have left with base desires pettily satisfied. That's all he could have meant to her and she would remain lesser for it.
They're in the present, their pasts having battered and bruised them, but they've made it. And now, Amelia understands in some way, that Gale may be looking at her the way Briar did.]
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He then reaches into the front pocket of his jacket and pulls out a handkerchief, holding it out to her in offering as he gives a gentle shake of his head.]
You've done no such thing. I'm... better off for having known you.
[Any injuries or misunderstandings at the start had been on both of them— that and coincidence, although he's found himself feeling increasingly grateful for whatever twist of fate had thrown them into one another's paths again, difficult as that shock had been. Life would be quite different if they had simply gone their separate ways and let those text messages slow down and peter out until they stopped coming altogether.
It would have been a far lonelier existence, for one.
Amelia, he now thinks, did not insist upon not liking people because she thought little of them, but because she was protecting herself. When she did like people, like him, she acted as though it was against her better judgment, but if all this time it had been to keep the threat of further loss at arm's length—
That, too, was a terribly lonely existence.]
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[Amelia accepts the handkerchief, dabbing her eyes and wiping her cheeks.]
โI'm of the same mind.
[She's still imperfect, but getting to know Gale and be invested in his story and life made her realize that she a capacity beyond being a professor that furthered the education of large groups. That required precision, planning, and flexibility, but she was able to use professionalism as an excuse to be distant.
Briar fought for his connections until the very end. Amelia needed to do the same.
The atmosphere had been substantial and oppressive, not helped by the enormous photo of her past self gazing at them with her stormy eyes. Somehow, Amelia manages to remark with a strained bemusement:]
Of course you'd have a handkerchief...
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He offers her a faint smile, their fingers still entwined.]
A bit old-fashioned of me, perhaps, but it comes in handy every now and then.
[That brief smile fades, his brow furrowing slightly.]
Would you like me to get you some water?
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I'm...
...
...
[And then Amelia readjusts her posture, sighs, and suddenly declares.]
I'm hungry and I want to eat meat.
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