paint | zerkaa

2:10

PART TWO: RECEIVING
"my whole life, it seems everyone
looks at me as this ideal figure, but they cease to
realise my life isn't a stand alone photograph."

THIRD PERSON -
Freya found herself crying at lunchtime, and she didn't know entirely why, maybe the new school drama had finally caught up to her, sick of hearing the welcoming words and the snobby guys who think they could twist the new girl into their bed. Freya didn't hate this school, in fact she actually liked it, but she couldn't deal with another person whispering behind her that she was so seemingly perfect.

It hurt the most because it was the truth, she was this ideal figure that everyone wished they were, girls wanted to be her, wanted parents like her wanted clothes like her wanted nothing more than to be the popularity stricken girl. It sucked, it sounded stupid but it sucked having everyone look at you and not feeling the way they wanted you to.

Popular girls cried over boys or not getting what they wanted, but Freya cried over how she had always been pressured to be in a certain type of slim individuals who lived like her.

Freya walked out of bathroom finding her way to the back of the school, that's when she spots him, sitting their under the tree, his pencil fiddling in his mouth as he looks up above at the branches covering him from the sun, she doesn't care about her blotchy face, but she walks over and sits down.

His breath hitches as she does so, but when he sees the tears on her face, he frowns, he wants to ask if she is ok, but he o always hated that question, so he stays silent. She looks at him, observing the way his eyes are so kind, so caring, yet his mouth is still pressed together, like he doesn't care at all.

"I have your drawing," she says, opening her bag to reveal the white sheet of paper with the sketch of his parents, he grabs the piece of paper, looking it over before looking at her. He stands up, not saying anything before ripping it into pieces, shreds of paper falling onto the grass, her mouth open in shock.

He tries to walk away, but her cries distract her from it, he turns around, looking at what he thought was such a perfect girl crying so heavily near him.

"You're too pretty to cry," he finally says.

"Why does everyone say that!" She screams. "My whole life, it seems everyone looks at me as this ideal figure, but they cease to realise my life isn't a stand alone photograph."

"You don't have troubles, like it or not, you are a pretty face."

"Fuck you," she cries. She gets up and shoves past him, screaming in anger as her tears make it down her cheeks, her lip trembling.

"I never said you were just a pretty face, you can be so much more if you try!" He screams.

She stops, turns back around to face him.

"Let go," he says finally. "And let me paint you."