Between Then and Now (Hallow’s End #1)

7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

S UNLIGHT FILTERED THROUGH the windows of my cottage, illuminating the art supplies scattered across the floor—paint tubes, brushes, and sketchbooks forming a chaotic circle around me. Yesterday, after the phone call with my mother, I had been on a roll, brimming with confidence and ready to embrace my dreams. The idea of staying in Hallow’s End felt not only possible, but right.

But today, I woke up feeling like my old self again. The confidence I’d felt yesterday seemed to have evaporated overnight, leaving me uncertain and questioning my choices all over again. Was I really brave enough to follow through with my dreams? To stay in this small town, away from everything I knew, and carve out a new life for myself?

I sat on the floor, gazing at the empty easel before me. Normally, painting was my escape, and the one thing that always made sense. It grounded me, gave me clarity. But now, as I stared at the untouched canvas, my mind felt as blank as its surface.

I tried to focus on the positive aspects of my new life. I thought about my blossoming friendship with Ivy, the potential art gallery that could be mine, and even the possibility of dating Ethan. It was a beautiful dream—a fresh start, a new chapter filled with creativity and genuine connections. But my thoughts kept drifting back to Cresden and, inevitably, to Sebastian. The small voice in my head was relentless, mocking me with doubts: It’s a nice dream, Vinnie, but it’s just a dream. You won’t make it a reality.

I struggled to silence that voice, trying to remember the way Ethan’s golden eyes had lit up when I talked about my art. He seemed genuinely interested in me and what I was passionate about. But then, my thoughts would circle back to Sebastian, and how he never really cared for my art. While Ethan’s encouragement felt refreshing, it also highlighted the lack of support I’d experienced in my past relationship.

Even as I felt a flutter of excitement thinking about Ethan, there was still a heaviness in my chest from the unresolved feelings surrounding Sebastian. The memories of him were tangled up with the doubts that plagued me. No matter how much I wanted to move on, the wounds from my breakup were still raw. As much as I longed for a new beginning, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the past was still holding me back.

The bright red paint dripped from the paintbrush I had picked up, splattering onto the white shirt I was wearing. It was Sebastian’s shirt—one of the few remnants of our relationship I couldn’t let go of. Even now, it still carried the faintest hint of his cologne, a bittersweet reminder of what we once had. The familiar scent was like a mocking echo, reminding me of the comfort and affection I used to find in his arms, now just a hollow memory .

I groaned and put the paintbrush down, closing my eyes. Normally, the smell of paint would spark a creative fire in me, a rush of inspiration. But today, the fumes, mingling with his lingering scent, felt overwhelming, like they were closing in on me. I opened my eyes, determined not to let these feelings of doubt and regret paralyze me. Art had always been my way to work through emotions too complex to voice.

Picking up the brush again, I dipped it back into the red paint and made a bold, harsh line across the canvas, but it didn’t feel right. My thoughts drifted back to the city, where inspiration had always flowed effortlessly. The bustling streets, the ever-changing skyline, and the vibrant energy of Cresden all served as fuel for my creativity. The constant noise and movements were like a symphony that guided my brush. But here in Hallow’s End, everything felt too quiet, too stagnant. The tranquillity I had longed for now seemed to stifle my imagination.

Feeling a surge of frustration, I ripped the canvas from the easel and tossed it aside. The usual bold strokes and bright colors just weren’t speaking to me—they felt wrong, jarring. I picked up a fresh canvas, determined to try something new, and my eyes fell on a box of paints I hadn’t touched in years. The soft pastel tubes sat in neat, untouched rows. They’d never appealed to me before but, today, they seemed to call out. The colors looked soothing, offering a gentle alternative to my usual intensity.

I picked up a fresh palette and squeezed out the pastel hues, watching as the soft pinks, blues, and greens pooled together. This is right , a quiet voice inside me whispered, and a small smile played on my lips as I picked up a clean brush and dipped it into the paint. I tried capturing Hallow’s End’s tranquil beauty—its charm and silent moments, so different from the chaos of my old life.

This fresh approach to my art felt like a way to leave Cresden behind, to forget about the noise and pressure that had suffocated me. But, despite Hallow’s End’s charm and beauty, every time I tried to capture its essence on canvas, it didn’t work. My attempts to translate the quaint town into art fell flat. The simplicity of this place seemed to drain the colors from my mind, leaving me with a palette of dull shades, and I couldn’t understand why it wasn’t coming together. The frustration built up inside me, gnawing at my confidence.

Frustrated by my failed attempts to paint from memory—something I’d always excelled at in college—I turned my attention to the scenery outside the cottage window, hoping it would help.

The towering pines swayed gently in the breeze, their deep green needles catching the light like tiny emeralds. Each tree had a unique shape, with branches reaching out like gnarled fingers. The forest floor was a mix of rich browns and muted golds, with fallen leaves scattered among the roots, creating a patchwork of textures.

Beyond the forest, the majestic mountains stood tall, their rugged peaks dusted with the first snow of the season. The snow glistened in the sunlight, a blend of icy whites and soft blues that contrasted beautifully with the darker, shadowed crevices. Mist capped the mountains, adding a dreamlike quality to the scene.

I swiped the brush across the canvas, determined on capturing it. But the stroke felt devoid of any feeling, flat and uninspired. Frustrated, I wiped it away and tried again, and again, each attempt more disheartening than the last. Every time I put brush to canvas, it felt flat, lifeless. The tranquillity of Hallow’s End, which should have been a muse, instead felt like a shroud, muting the colours and energy that I longed to express. The creativity that used to flow effortlessly from my hands now felt foreign, wrong, like trying to play an instrument with someone else’s hands.

My frustration grew with every failed attempt, the serene landscape taunting me with its unyielding calmness. It was as if my art was still anchored to the urban frenzy, and I didn’t know how to tap into this new, tranquil landscape.

My mind began to wander back to Cresden and Sebastian. He was chaotic and unpredictable, and often the spark behind my most inspired works. His solution to everything was spontaneous nights out with friends, filled with drinking, laughter, and mischief. The thrill of those moments, the rush of being swept up in his energy, had often served as my muse. Since the breakup, I hadn’t truly painted anything that felt alive. Admitting that, even to myself, was a fear I wasn’t ready to face.

The notion ate away at me, a painful reminder that without him, my artistic endeavors might never be the same again. Our breakup had been a shock to Sebastian, a decision that had taken me weeks to muster the courage for. It wasn’t just the chaotic nights out that had fuelled my art; it was also the instability and uncertainty of our relationship.

Sebastian was a master of mixed signals—one moment, he was all in, making grand gestures and declarations of love. The next, he was distant, and he thrived on spontaneity, which often left me feeling unsteady and unsure of where we stood.

Then there was the constant pressure to fit into his world. Sebastian thrived in the high-energy circles of Cresden’s elite, always rubbing elbows with people who could never understand me or my passion for art. I often felt like an accessory, a background character in his larger-than-life story. Our lives revolved around his social calendar, leaving little room for my own interests and needs.

The final straw came one night when he drunkenly confessed that he saw my art as just a silly hobby he entertained in hopes I would eventually outgrow it. It was clear he envisioned me following in my mother’s footsteps, hosting dinners and attending charity events, all while abandoning my passion for art .

The first few weeks after the breakup were the hardest. Sebastian had been so integrated into every part of my life that it felt like I couldn’t escape him. Both of our families immediately sided with him, conveniently overlooking the real issues. They made endless excuses for his behavior, and accidentally orchestrated situations where we’d end up at the same events, all under the guise of giving him a chance to talk to me. It was stressful and exhausting. All I wanted was to mourn our relationship and begin healing, but I couldn’t. Despite Cresden being a big city, it was suffocating, like there was nowhere to hide.

Sometimes, even I doubted my decision to break up. There were moments when I questioned if I had been too hasty, if perhaps I had exaggerated the issues. The good times we shared—the laughter, the spontaneous adventures, the way he could make everything seem exciting—those memories were hard to shake. They clouded my judgment, making me second-guess whether I had made the right choice.

On top of that, there was the looming shadow of my parents’ expectations. I knew they were disappointed, seeing Sebastian as the perfect partner for their vision of my future. They wanted the seamless blending of two influential families and the stability that came with it. Letting them down added another layer of guilt, making me question if I had been selfish in pursuing what I wanted instead of what was expected.

As these thoughts raced through my mind, I found myself absentmindedly stroking a brush against the canvas, the bristles barely touching the surface. The paint was smeared in soft, meaningless lines, more an expression of my scattered thoughts than any actual attempt at creating art.

Hallow’s End was supposed to be a refuge, a place where I could find clarity and maybe even a fresh start. Yet, here I was, still haunted by the past, my thoughts circling back to Cresden and the life I’d left behind .

My confidence wavered, chipped away by years of trying to meet everyone’s expectations. I wondered if I could truly stand on my own, or if I had been fooling myself all along. The soft pastel colors on the canvas, painted in my usual bold, abstract style, felt strange and unfamiliar. The gentle hues, applied with my characteristic intense strokes, clashed in a way that mirrored my own mixed emotions. A sad laugh that turned into a sob escaped my lips. It was as if the painting itself was caught in the same uncertain, in-between stage I was in.

Tears brimmed in my eyes as I sat there, clutching the paintbrush. The weight of my insecurities, and the heartbreak I had tried to bury, threatened to overwhelm me, and I angrily ripped the canvas from the frame, throwing the brush across the room. My eyes landed on the small table by the window, where my phone lay.

The urge to call Sebastian gnawed at me, despite knowing it wouldn’t solve anything. It was a pull, born out of a deep-seated need for comfort and familiarity. The breakup had left me feeling untethered, like a ship adrift without its anchor. Sebastian had been that anchor, my constant during uncertain times.

I thought back to my first year of college, to a particularly painful memory.

It was a cold, gray evening during my first year of college, and the words of my professor stung like a fresh wound: “Your work lacks depth and feeling, Vinnie. While it is technically proficient, it lacks an emotional connection. It’s all too safe, too controlled. Art should evoke something in the viewer, and right now, your pieces just don’t.”

He had critiqued my latest series—geometric landscapes and meticulously detailed sceneries. I had poured hours into perfecting each line and color, but it still wasn’t enough. His words cut deep, leaving me feeling exposed and inadequate.

Desperate and defeated, I called Sebastian. He picked up immediately, his voice warm and soothing. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

The tears spilled over as I choked out that I needed to see him. Without hesitation, Sebastian told me to come over. His dorm was just a short walk away, and soon I was knocking on his door, my heart heavy with disappointment.

Sebastian opened the door and immediately pulled me into a comforting hug. “It’s okay,” he murmured, his hand stroking my back. “Come in.”

I sank onto his bed, feeling the weight of the day’s events. Between sobs, I explained how the professor had dismissed my work as lacking emotion and depth. Sebastian listened, his jaw tightening in anger. “What a jerk,” he muttered, shaking his head. “He has no idea what he’s talking about.”

After a pause, Sebastian’s expression shifted to one of mischievous defiance. “You know what? Maybe you should throw some paint at the canvas,” he suggested, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Seems like that’s all some modern art is these days. Just slap some colors on there and call it a masterpiece.”

I looked up at him, a small, disbelieving smile forming despite my tears. “You mean just make a mess?”

He grinned, his eyes lighting up with a playful spark. “Yeah! Why not? Show that professor how wrong he is. Forget all the rules and just . . . go wild.”

His words struck a chord, igniting a spark of rebellion in me. “That’s actually . . . not a bad idea.”

With a shared glance of conspiracy, we decided to sneak into the college art studio, the thrill of breaking the rules adding an exhilarating edge to the night. We found ourselves standing before a large blank canvas, the studio lights casting a soft glow around us. Sebastian grabbed a can of bright red paint and handed it to me. “Go on, show me what you’ve got.”

For a moment, I hesitated. Then, with a surge of emotion, I dipped my hand into the paint and flung it at the canvas. The splash of color felt freeing, a defiant release of all the frustration and anger I had been bottling up. Sebastian joined in, mockingly smearing paint with exaggerated strokes, laughing as we both created a chaotic masterpiece.

We lost track of time, caught up in the rebellious joy of it all. Our clothes were splattered, our hands covered in paint, but we didn’t care. We stepped back to admire our work—a wild, abstract explosion of colors and emotions. It was messy, imperfect, and absolutely liberating.

Later, as we lay on the studio floor, our bodies sticky with drying paint and the smell of turpentine in the air, we talked about everything and nothing. The exhilaration of the night still buzzed between us, a shared sense of rebellion and freedom. Eventually, we cleaned up, and snuck back to Sebastian’s dorm, laughing softly to ourselves, careful not to wake his roommates.

In the dim light of his bathroom, we stepped into the shower together, the hot water washing away the paint and sweat. The steam enveloped us and, as the paint swirled down the drain, so did the last remnants of my fears and inhibitions. It was there, under the warm spray, that we made love—not for the first time, but it felt different. More intense and raw. It seemed like the paint washed away the last of the walls we had both put up. The vulnerability and passion of the moment was overwhelming, leaving us both breathless and deeply connected.

From that day on, my art changed. The structured, precise lines of my earlier works gave way to bold, chaotic strokes and vivid colors. I no longer feared the judgment of others or the potential mess of failure. Sebastian had helped me embrace the chaos, to express my emotions on the canvas without restraint. My paintings became a true reflection of my inner world—wild, unpredictable, and deeply felt.

As I sat in the cottage, lost in the vivid memories of that night, a sudden sharp sound brought me back to the present. The wind had picked up outside, causing a tree branch to tap persistently against the windowpane.

I was left with a bittersweet ache from the memory of that night. For a moment, all the reasons I had for leaving Sebastian seemed to blur, overwhelmed by the longing for the comfort and passion we once shared. It was as if all the bad stuff—the neglect, the dismissive comments about my art—faded away, leaving only the warmth of his encouragement and the thrill of our rebellious adventure. My hand instinctively reached for my phone on the table, the urge to hear his voice, to feel that connection again, almost overpowering.

We hadn’t spoken since my mother’s birthday a few weeks ago, and the conversation had been stiff and polite, tinged with the awkwardness of our unresolved breakup. Sebastian had made small talk, trying to find a way to connect, but I kept my responses short, not wanting to give him any false hope. It was clear he wanted to fix things, to go back to the way things were, but I couldn’t pretend that everything was fine. The weight of our shared history, and the expectations from both our families, made every word feel like a minefield. I quickly excused myself, sneaking away from the party, not wanting to confront the reality of our broken relationship.

That night, I felt the overwhelming need to escape the pressure and confusion that had become my life in Cresden. I realized I needed to get away, to find a place where I could think and breathe without constant reminders of what others expected of me. That was how I decided on Hallow’s End—a place where I could start fresh, away from the complications of my old life.

I scrolled to his name in my contacts, pausing as his picture appeared on the screen. It was a goofy selfie he had set as his contact photo when we first started dating—his attempt at making me laugh during one of our dates. My finger hovered over the call button. It was a dangerous temptation, a pull towards the familiar comfort and chaos he represented.

I never told Sebastian I was leaving, but I knew my mother had likely informed him. The day I was supposed to leave, a package arrived at my door—a gift from Sebastian. He always had a flair for grand gestures, and this was no exception. Inside was an expensive leather travel journal, embossed with my initials, and a set of high-quality sketching pencils. It was thoughtful, almost too perfect, like he was trying to cover all the bases. But it felt wrong, like a gift from a stranger who didn’t truly understand what I needed. I left the journal behind, unopened, as if doing so would sever the lingering ties between us.

If only it were that easy.

His messages and calls were still muted on my phone, the notifications piling up like tiny ghosts haunting my screen. I never opened them, afraid of what I might find. His apologies, his pleas, his attempts to pull me back into his orbit. The allure of those unopened messages was a constant temptation, especially in moments of weakness, but blocking him felt like a step I wasn’t ready to take. A final severance that was too daunting to confront. The fear of truly cutting him out of my life kept me tethered, even as I tried to move forward.

I wondered if he still thought about me, if he missed us as much as I sometimes missed the comfort of what we had. I imagined what it would be like to hear my name on his lips again, the familiar honey of his voice washing over me. The thought of his touch, the way he knew exactly how to make me feel needed, pulled at my heart.

But a new fear crept in—what if he had started to move on? I had ignored his calls and messages for weeks. What if, in my absence, he had given up on us? The idea that he might have found a way to move forward without me, despite his efforts to reconnect, made me hesitate. I knew it was selfish, to want him to still chase after me, to hope he might change and become the partner I needed. It made little sense, yet the thought lingered. My finger hovered over the call button, paralyzed by the possibility of both hope and heartbreak.

The idea of calling him felt too daunting, too final. Instead, I decided to text him, a safer, less intimidating step. I unmuted his notifications and my thumb hesitated over the screen as I opened our chat, skipping over the numerous unread messages he’d sent. My eyes caught on the last one, simple but full of weight.

That message made my chest tighten. Despite everything, he was still waiting. Taking a deep breath, I started typing, the words coming slowly, hesitantly, as I tried to figure out what to say. How to bridge the gap between us.

Hey, Sebastian. It’s Vinnie. I was just thinking about —I deleted it.

Sebastian, I miss —Delete.

I don’t know why I’m writing this —Delete.

Nothing felt right, nothing captured the turmoil in my heart. My head knew better, reminding me that we were truly over, but my heart hadn’t caught up yet. The pull was almost addictive, a craving for the comfort his voice once brought. Sniffling, I wiped my face roughly. In a moment of weakness, I surrendered to the impulse and pressed the call button.

The line rang once.

My heart pounded, and I wondered if he would even pick up.

Was he busy? Did he see my name and hesitate?

It rang twice.

I clenched the phone tightly, anxiety building with each passing second.

What would I even say if he answered?

It rang three times.

Panic set in.

Why am I doing this? Why was I calling him after all this time?

My finger hovered over the END CALL button, debating whether to hang up and pretend this never happened.

Then, the call went to voicemail. His voice, cheerful and familiar, brought me back to reality.

“Hey, it’s Sebastian. Sorry I missed you. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.”

The beep echoed in the silence, and I dropped the call, the reality of my situation crashing down on me.

What was I doing?

This was stupid.

I let the phone slip from my hand, tears streaming down my face and soaking into the shirt. How could a single text leave me feeling so undone?

I sat there, the weight of my choice pressing down on me. A mistake born from a moment of weakness. This wasn’t the way forward. It was a step back. A regression into a past I needed to let go of. My breaths came in shallow gasps. I wanted to move on, to build a new life here, but my heart was still tethered to a world that no longer existed .

Breaking up had seemed like the hard part, but the aftermath was proving even tougher. The reality of moving on was far more challenging than I had anticipated. Breakups sucked. They tore at the soul, leaving scars that didn’t heal easily. I’d been avoiding my therapist, cancelling all sessions because I didn’t want to deal with this pain. Suppressing it all had seemed easier at the time, but now it was boiling over, overwhelming me with a vengeance.

After what felt like hours, I finally took a deep, steadying breath, my chest aching from the sobs. This wasn’t the end. It was a beginning—a painful, messy beginning, but a beginning nonetheless.