When Promises Die

Acknowledgment seared my heart as I gazed at the people who had come to appreciate the works I create. It was a newfound feeling. All my life, everyone believed that painting would doom my path to success. They said I shouldn't turn my hobby into a career, that I shouldn't make something I love into a job, because I would regret it later on and might even come to hate it in the end. But I was stubborn. I never gave up on it. I persevered, suffered, and worked harder, just like everyone else, and now here I was. All eyes were on me—some curious, some astonished, some envious, and some lustful. I gazed upon everyone and confidently walked onto the platform, taking the center aisle. I slightly bowed my head to acknowledge all the people who had come to meet the artist in this gallery. "I am very pleased to know that each one of you appreciates the art I've made." " Each piece has a profound meaning, a story, and a valuable treasure or experience for me," I began, and smiled slightly. "I know that for someone who created such art, you must've expected me to be much older or more mature, a dignified person with a mysterious aura, or perhaps a bearded man?" I said humorously, and everyone chuckled, nodding. "But here I am, a pretty 26-year-old lady, don't you agree?" I said half-joking, and I smiled when they nodded their heads in agreement. Yet what caught my eye the most was the man standing at the edge, leaning his back against the wall, his left hand in his pocket, and his right holding a glass of wine. His stare was intense, and the irritating part was, he was smirking at my words as if mocking me. My smile faltered, and I avoided his gaze. I continued my speech, thanking everyone for appreciating and buying my works. After that, my friend Claire, who is also my manager, introduced me to people of all sorts. It was exhausting but definitely fulfilling, for I got to hear their personal reviews and analyses of my works. And now we were down to the last VIP. After this, I was out. I had used too much social battery today; I couldn't go on any longer. I was so ready to smile genuinely for the last person, but he didn't deserve it, so I crossed my arms and raised my brow. This was the mannerless me, and only people I disliked got to see this. "A warm welcome, I see," he said with a slightly amused expression. "Did any of my art appeal to you, sir?" I straightened my poise and acted like I wasn't bothered by him. "The art? None, I suppose..." he said seriously, while holding his chin as if he was thinking deeply. I frowned and was about to lash out, but he stepped closer to me and took hold of strands of my hair as he kissed its tips. I was startled by his action that I couldn't move. "But the artist did leave some lasting impression," he said dangerously and smirked. And there goes my erratically beating heart. A lost feeling emerged. 'Was it familiarity? No, it couldn't be.' The man standing in front of me was not who he used to be. 'Then perhaps it was longing.' I longed for the love we used to have, but now I couldn't keep wavering. What happened in the past was irreversible, and we shouldn't get any closer, or else I might lose myself entirely. I c****d my head to the side and locked gazes with him. "How ironic, sir. Someone who only finds me appealing instead of my art is not welcome in my gallery. Now, please see your way out," I said sarcastically and curtsied slightly. I turned my back on him but was startled when he held my hand. I frowned at his gesture, but what he did next left me frustratingly speechless. He kissed my hand like a gentleman, and I got goosebumps when he suddenly smiled amusingly. How dare he! "It was nice meeting you, Miss Meyers," he uttered and was supposed to leave, but I grabbed the end of his suit to stop him. "Shan, I—" Before I could continue what I was going to say, his deep, cold gaze stopped me. It was chilling, and it was the first time he had looked at me like that. Probably, it was the nickname that triggered it. "Did I ever tell you my nickname?" he asked with a dangerous tone. I unconsciously stepped back from the pressure he was giving, hesitating to answer him. This is how I used to call him but maybe I don't have the right anymore. Still, it wasn't a good enough reason to get mad. How strange... He then chuckled mockingly. "I don't even know you, so don't talk or say my name like we're so close. They might mistake you for an attention seeker instead of an artist," he said with pure menace. I looked into his eyes. It was not an act, nor a lie. He did not know who I was. Had I changed too much? No, I hadn't. I had even mentioned my name during my speech. Then, was he a different person? No, he couldn't be. I wouldn't mistake him for a different man. His moles and even his dimples—it was all there. Only one thing remained... He did not remember me. My eyes swelled with tears that were about to fall—definitely not for longing anymore, but for the betrayal that only I could remember, how much pain he caused me, while he was right here standing in front of me like a new man who had never broken my heart. I looked at him with my pained expression and smiled.' It's okay Elara, it was bound to happen'. I said in my thoughts, convincing my self not to dwell anymore on the good memories we had. "How fortunate for you, Mr. Scott. I regret meeting you," I finally said before I walked out. It wasn't just the promises he killed, he also killed his memories of me, and that, too, hurts like hell.