Sapphire
With deft flicks of my wrists, I guide the paintbrush in short strokes, blending shades of blue and yellow across the canvas. I took up painting simply as a means to relieve stress, hoping to channel my tension into colors and shapes.
I dragged out my easel again tonight, telling myself that between painting myself to exhaustion and finishing the bottle of red I just opened, I’ll get some decent sleep tonight.
Or die trying.
For the fourth night in a row, I can’t sleep. Not a single wink. Because I can’t stop thinking about him.
That last phone call shifted something between us. It was as though an unspoken pact had been formed, with some part of me expecting Zade to call every night to share the unfolding events of his life.
But he hasn’t. Not for a week now. Not since that
