When Love Lost Its Color
551 Views · Ongoing · Fuzzy Melissa
"No. It's too stiff." Ronan Black, my boyfriend of three years, frowned in frustration and tossed down his paintbrush. "There's not a single sketch with any soul in it."
A classmate beside him looked confused. "How is that possible? Your paintings with Isolde as the model always had such beautiful lighting."
The words stabbed straight through my heart, but I stood there frozen, saying nothing.
Ronan wiped his hands and looked at me with undisguised disgust.
"Forget it. I'm not painting anymore. You just don't have any artistic sense. No matter what you paint, it always looks cheap and mediocre."
With that, he turned toward the wealthy girl who had just walked into the studio.
Without the slightest hesitation, he took out the set of rare paints I'd spent three months waiting tables to buy.
He picked up his palette knife, and his eyes instantly became focused and almost feverish.
"Turn your face just a little. Yes, right there. Perfect…"
I stood quietly in the corner, watching the effortless chemistry between the two of them.
Suddenly, I remembered something from years ago.
I had once asked Ronan the same question.
"Why do certain parts of your paintings always seem to glow?"
Back then, he had smiled as he washed the paint residue from my fingertips.
"Because a painting comes from the heart. When you love someone, every stroke you make becomes beautiful."
Now, I finally understood. He didn't love me anymore.
We had once agreed that I would go with him to an ordinary state university in Boston.
But now, it was time to pick up my own brush and chase the future I wanted.
A classmate beside him looked confused. "How is that possible? Your paintings with Isolde as the model always had such beautiful lighting."
The words stabbed straight through my heart, but I stood there frozen, saying nothing.
Ronan wiped his hands and looked at me with undisguised disgust.
"Forget it. I'm not painting anymore. You just don't have any artistic sense. No matter what you paint, it always looks cheap and mediocre."
With that, he turned toward the wealthy girl who had just walked into the studio.
Without the slightest hesitation, he took out the set of rare paints I'd spent three months waiting tables to buy.
He picked up his palette knife, and his eyes instantly became focused and almost feverish.
"Turn your face just a little. Yes, right there. Perfect…"
I stood quietly in the corner, watching the effortless chemistry between the two of them.
Suddenly, I remembered something from years ago.
I had once asked Ronan the same question.
"Why do certain parts of your paintings always seem to glow?"
Back then, he had smiled as he washed the paint residue from my fingertips.
"Because a painting comes from the heart. When you love someone, every stroke you make becomes beautiful."
Now, I finally understood. He didn't love me anymore.
We had once agreed that I would go with him to an ordinary state university in Boston.
But now, it was time to pick up my own brush and chase the future I wanted.

















































