“No,” I force the word out, but they both ignore me.
He’s already walking across the room. And somehow, I just know I won’t see him again.
Because he did this on purpose.
“Mr. Dacosta will want to speak with you as well, Chloe,” Isabel tells me. “Make sure you have
your phone on you.”
“Keller,” I choke out.
He turns back to me, but doesn’t utter a word. He isn’t even looking at me. He’s looking through
me.
And then, in another second, he is gone.
Chapter Fourteen
Chloe
There’s a well-known stereotype that artists are tortured souls.
I guess in a way it’s true.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the short span of my life, it’s that you can either take that
pain and use it or let it wreck you.
I think in some ways, pain can make the most beautiful art.
The dysfunction. The chaos.
The emotion that you pour into the images themselves.
In my case, it’s the emotion I pour into the movements.
My final piece is going to be a solo act. A choreographed story of my transformation. From dancer
to artist. From mental imprisonment to freedom.
From love to heartbreak.
It’s not a stretch at all to say that I loved him.
Not when I’ve loved him since the first time I saw him. And before that, from the first time I
glimpsed his art. A piece of his soul.
I’m trying to forget the way he left me. I’m trying to forget that it sometimes hurts to breathe.
And today when I walk into my father’s office, I’m trying to remember the one thing that he taught
me best. To follow my own heart.
In hindsight, I can see what he meant by those words. Not to be like him.
To have courage.