Spring Sunshine After Leaving Chapter 2

Rhys was never one for words.

But the comments told me it was a form of deep, repressed love, and that I was his only salvation.

It started in our first art class together. He glanced at the clouds I’d painted and scoffed.

"That's hideous. It looks like a caterpillar."

I was about to snap back when the comments erupted.

【That’s our male lead! A born critic, even as a kid, hahaha.】

【He's just got a sharp tongue and a soft heart. He fell for her at first sight, you know. He's dying to grab the brush and teach her himself.】

I blinked, then glanced over at Rhys. He was peeking at me from the corner of his eye. I pouted.

"I just don't have as many supplies as you."

His handsome brows knitted together in a show of impatience. He shoved his palette of expensive paints toward me.

"Take them all. It'll still be ugly."

His harsh, moody behavior continued for years, and for years, it grated on me. Until I was sixteen.

I was walking home alone when a stalker lunged from the shadows, his hand clamping over my mouth.

I thrashed wildly, but my limbs grew heavy, useless. I felt the rough tear of fabric as he ripped at my dress.

Just before I blacked out, I saw a figure fly past. It was Rhys.

He threw himself at the attacker. I was safe. When I woke up, I was in a hospital, and he was in the bed next to me. He’d been stabbed in the stomach and had two broken ribs, the bandages stark white against his skin.

But his first thought was of me.

I started to panic, but he cut me off, his face a blank mask.

"Don't get all sappy. I was just passing by." He paused, his gaze hardening. "And you should think about why you were targeted. Always trying to look pretty. Maybe now you've learned your lesson."

His words were so ugly they stung more than any wound. I froze, a hot prickling behind my eyes. I looked down at myself.

It was my birthday, and my mom had bought me a new floral dress. The teachers had even given me permission to wear it instead of my uniform.

Was that my fault, too?

The comments rushed to his defense.

【He only followed her home because he heard there'd been trouble in the neighborhood lately. He was secretly protecting her.】

【Totally! He was so jealous earlier when he saw the other guys telling her how pretty her dress was.】

【He's the strong, silent type who shows his love through actions, not words. I'm crying. When will she finally open her eyes and see how much he adores her!】

I looked up, but all I saw was his averted gaze.

And the terrible wounds covering his body.

From that day on, I set aside my resentment. I started searching for his love in the spaces between the lines of the comments.

And occasionally, I thought I caught a glimpse of it.

It felt natural when I started to fall for him, and just as natural when we got together.

But Rhys was, without a doubt, a genius.

He was a once-in-a-generation painter. Geniuses speak to geniuses, and I was just… ordinary.

Then he met Faye, his new protégée, and the delicate balance of our relationship shattered.

When inspiration struck, he no longer shared it with me first; he’d rush off to find her.

When his depressive episodes hit, he'd smash his canvases rather than let me into his studio, yet he made an exception for her, letting her sit with him, comfort him.

When he won an award, he would embrace her first, then toss the trophy into my arms like an afterthought.

I complained, countless times, but the comments always insisted he only saw her as a kindred spirit. A rare connection between two artists, a meeting of the minds.

I wanted to scream, to demand, "What does she have that I don't?"

But that would be undignified. Humiliating.

So I struggled, and I swallowed it all, trying to accommodate his moods, his closed-off nature, his rage.

But this time, I was just so tired.

Staring at the two halves of the broken paintbrush, a symbol of a past we could never return to, I picked up my phone and began to type a text.