Chapter 23: Almost

"Hey! I thought you were asleep." Genevieve looked a bit surprised to see me.

"Yeah, I was just about to. I just went to eat lunch first." Hopefully, my nervousness did not show on my face.

"Oh, what did you have for lunch?"

"I, uh, had meat rolls!" I responded at an unusually high pitch. I swallowed my saliva to try clearing my throat. "Why are you back early?"

My heart hammered in my chest as I watched Genevieve walk towards the small living room. I don't know why I'm panicking, though. Genevieve has never once entered my room, ever since I got here.

"Well, I forgot to bring our department banner for the tennis tournament this afternoon. I'm just here to pick it up, and then I'm heading out again."

"Oh, okay. Then, I'll go sleep!" I said and hurriedly went inside my bedroom.

I let out a sigh of relief as I closed the bedroom door. "That was close," I muttered.

But the relief I got was quickly replaced with horror when I saw Clint standing while watching the canvases placed on my bedroom wall. More specifically, he was looking at three particular canvases.

I muttered a few incoherent curses under my breath. I was so nervous about Genevieve coming that I forgot there were actually paintings within my bedroom that should never see the light of day!

I tripped on one of the easels scattered around my room and almost fell. Another series of curses flowed out of my mouth. When I looked up, I caught Clint staring at me with a complicated gaze.

"Let's just make it clear: I don't like you. It's just that you look so handsome during those moments, and so I painted it. If you're wondering why I hung them up, it's just because it turned out really well! And wouldn't you want to decorate your wall with something beautiful? Just that... that beautiful something is you."

Fuck! What am I saying? Why am I like this when I'm flustered? I should have just shut up. Now I've made things even more awkward!

"There's nothing wrong with liking me," he said coolly. "I'm smart, rich, and most importantly, handsome. You don't need to be shy about it."

I was left speechless.

He went back to look at the paintings as if nothing had happened. "They're really detailed. It looked like they were real," he complimented. "But do I really look that sad on that day?"

He was talking about the painting of him under the illumination of the Jade Vines. His face was painted in the bottom left corner of the canvas, angled up as if he were gazing up at the jade vines above. His face looked graceful and solemn. His eyes, on the other hand, were filled with an unfathomable sadness—a lonely ethereal being.

Even though I was the one who painted it, I too get affected by the extreme sadness emitted by the painting every time I look at it. I even thought of taking it down from the wall. Though beautiful, it's just not a good sight to wake up to in the morning.

"In my perspective, you were," I said, my eyes still not leaving the lonely painting.

"How about the second one?" He pointed at the canvas next to the first one.

The painting had the same setting as the first one. But this time, Clint in the painting is at the very center of the canvas, head slightly tilted up, eyes looking straight.

The painting was based on that instance where I called his name and he looked up to me and our eyes met. So when someone else looks at the painting, it looks like the subject is looking back at them.

"It felt like I was looking at myself in a mirror." He was transfixed for a moment.

This is why I never want him to see this. These paintings are just too personal. Right now, he's seeing himself in that painting the way I was seeing him with my eyes, and I don't know what he'll think of that.

When he started moving on to the last painting, I began to panic. "Uhm, Clint, I think we should go out now. Genevieve probably already left," I said while pulling his arm, but he didn't even budge. "No, don't look at it!" I screamed. I lifted my hands to try and cover his eyes. But he simply entwined my hands with his even before they could reach his face. And now he wouldn't let go of it.

I could only close my eyes as his eyes finally landed on the painting.

It was during their shooting at the market. In the painting, he was standing in the middle of a set, staring at the crowd with a mischievous smile plastered on his lips. But through his eyes, you could see that he was looking at someone in particular.

If other people saw the painting, they would never guess who the guy in the painting is looking at. You could only see the back of the crowd in the painting, and no one stood out in particular. It's just a regular crowd watching their favorite artists shoot.

This is my only painting where I blended reality and imagination together. It's just that, when I was making this particular painting, I found myself wanting to be included in it. So I tried to imagine what the crowd would look like from afar that day and added it to the painting.

Though no one will know who he was looking at, the subject himself, namely the person beside me, knew where his eyes were particularly focused.

I unconsciously squeezed his hand, which is still holding mine. My forehead is beginning to sweat from the nervousness.

Among the three paintings of him, he was staring at it the longest. I can't figure out the expression on his face, and it's driving me crazy!

"Can I have this?"

"NO!!" I declined way faster than I was supposed to.

I'm already embarrassed enough that he saw that specific painting. Yet now, he even wants to take it with him.

"Why not?"

"Because I already gave you one."

"Then, I'll swap that for this one."

I mentally grabbed my hair in frustration.

Why is it so hard to talk to this guy?!

"No means no," I said firmly.

"Then, can I buy it from you?"

"No!" I yelled in frustration. "Why are you so obsessed with that one anyway?"

"Because out of all the three, I like your emotion on this one best."

Stunned, I momentarily froze. "Wh-what emotion are you even talking about?"

I couldn't look at him. For the very first time, I found my bedroom floor pretty interesting.

How does he even know that it's the painting that I poured most of my emotions into? Is this the power of being a veteran actor? Or is this a personal talent.

"And also…" I looked at Clint. "Because it's the only painting where you are present," he said, looking straight into my eyes.

It felt like the world stopped revolving for a moment.

His light-caramel eyes traveled from my eyes down to my lips. My cheeks burned as his gaze turned darker. It's like there is a horse race going on inside my chest. I swallowed.

Clint bent down a little, frowned, and said, "You're so short."

My cheeks flared… in rage this time. "Screw you!"

Really? Does he have to ruin the mood like that?

"It's so hard to kiss you."

"..."

How can this guy say such things without getting flustered?

I was about to say something when he walked past me. I followed him with my gaze, my brows wrinkling. He stopped in front of a canvas placed on an easel. There is an undisguised annoyance in his eyes as he looks at it.

"Why is a painting of him here?" He sounds extremely displeased.

The painting he was talking about was a Picasso-style portrait of Leandro. It was probably the hardest painting I have ever created. I incorporated Picasso's face distortion art style into a photorealism painting—all so I could capture Leandro's two genuine yet contrasting expressions on one single canvas.

On one side, Leandro was smiling warmly—just like on that day in the tower, where he said he was cheering for me. But on the other side, his smile was sinister, like the smile of an extremely evil villain. No one would ever associate such an expression with the upright and friendly academy president. Yet, for a short second, I caught a glimpse of such peculiarity.

"Because I painted it," I deadpanned.

The two expressions were diametrically opposed. But it shows Leandro's rawest and most genuine emotion. I'd say the Leandro in the painting resembles a true human more than the Leandro who kept flashing a vote-grabbing smile.

Cold and warm. Good and evil. That's Leandro in the painting.

"So you'll just paint any man you see, huh?" he said, glaring at me.

"Woah, woah! Why are you making it sound like I'm some cheap whore, selling her body on the streets?"

He scowled. "I'm not saying that."

"Well, you make it sound like it!" I brabbled. "One time you were insulting my height, and now you're insulting my standards? Well, screw you for being perfect, you asshole!"

"Okay, I'm sorry." He said this while raising both his hands.

"What, you're sorry that you're perfect? How haughty can you be?"

"Huh? What are you even talking about?"

Honestly, I don't know why I'm this angry. But now I'm too angry to stop being angry.

"You know what? Just go home. I don't want to see you right now."

I pushed his clueless-looking ass out of my room and kicked him out of our house.