Learning to Let Go of What Hurts

All the emotions I'd been suppressing surged up, suffocating me. I looked around at the paintings of Yves scattered across my apartment, and I screamed, letting it all out.

I tore at the canvases, throwing them to the ground and stomping on them. I ripped apart the paintings I had once labored over. I vented everything, creating a chaotic mess around me.

Then I collapsed onto the floor and cried.

Everything was ruined. Everything.

Only one painting remained intact—my favorite. It was framed and hung on the wall, and I'd forgotten about it in my rampage.

The painting depicted the first time I'd met Yves.

Trembling, I reached out to touch it, only to feel as if a shock of electricity had jolted up my arm.

Tears streaming, I stood frozen.

I wasn't as strong as I thought.

…

Three days later, Yves found me at the art exhibition. He was furious, his eyes fiery as he demanded, "Why didn't you sign up for the competition? Didn't you know that you had a chance at getting first place? Do you know how important this competition is? Even if you want to sulk, pick the right time and place!"

His words barreled through me, but my heart was already too numb.

I wanted to say so much, but in the end, all I could manage was, "Congratulations on winning the first prize."

Yves' expression softened. "You watched the competition? Why didn't I see you that day? You left early. You didn't wait for me."

I hadn't been there. I had just made a guess. He was talented enough to win the first prize easily.

I gestured toward the exhibition paintings and asked, "Do you think they're good?"

There was some melancholy in my eyes. This would probably be my last art exhibition. I stared at the people going about. Every now and then, someone would stop in front of a painting and admire the artist's skills.

One of these paintings was mine.

Yves rubbed his temples and took my hand. "Summer, I realize I've neglected you because I have been busy lately. But you know how important the piano competition was to me. There's a get-together tonight. Dress up well and come with me."

"I'm busy," I replied, holding his gaze calmly. "Yves, let's break up."

He laughed like he'd heard a funny joke. "Break up?" Then, gently, he continued, "Be good, Summer. I'll come home with you after the gathering, okay?"

I tilted my head and thought for a moment. "No. We're breaking up."

He tried to pull me into his arms, a move that had worked so many times before.

But as he touched me, I pushed him away, screaming.

Everyone turned toward me.

The calmness that I had tried so hard to maintain shattered unexpectedly.

I crouched down, holding my head in my hands as a surge of negative emotions overwhelmed me—all the resentment, suffering, pain, and despair that I had suffered for him. Everything I had worked for in the first half of my life had popped like a bubble in just one night.

Yet I could've still been saved. If I had gotten to the hospital just a few hours earlier; if he had answered his phone; if he had listened to me for just a few more patient moments…

Yves was stunned. He stared at me in shock, too afraid to take another step.

"Summer, it's me. It's me. What happened?" he asked cautiously, like a child who was unsure of what to do.

It took me all my strength to get my emotions back under control. I walked out of the exhibition hall. Yves chased after me. With my back to him, I said, "I need some time alone."

Back home, I sat alone in my tiny studio, unable to sort out my emotions. At times, I felt like crying, but there were also times when I didn't know what to feel.

I thought that I had detached myself from all this, but just the sight of Yves was enough to bring back my grief.

The apartment was bright. I had taken to sleeping with the lights on; darkness reminded me too much of that endless night and the intense pain that had swept through me. The only saving grace I'd held onto had ended my art career.