Chapter 111
Mireya
Remember me, always
Play - Young and Beautiful by Lana Del Rey
I have a date with my professor. Isn't that a little crazy for me to say?
He picked me up from the dorm this evening. I left Blue with Hayzel, and when she looked at how I was dressed, she asked, “Do you need a condom?” And I immediately left.
Now I'm here. The only museum in Seraphin Bay. Late afternoon, slipping into evening.
He wasn't quite sure where to go, and I admit it was kind of adorable.
When he told me yesterday that he wanted to take me somewhere, that for once he didn't want to hide, it scared me a little.
I'm so close to the end, so close to running away from here...
risking everything for love seems so different from what the old me would have done.
Love…
Is this even love? I don’t know but do I care? No.
No matter what I’m feeling, it’s soft, and dangerous, and it’s not hurting for once.
Damien took my hand as soon as we walked in. He's neither discreet nor cautious. It seems obvious to him that I can walk beside him, that what we could experience was worth all the hardships in the world.
It almost makes me laugh the way he’s taking care of me. It’s not funny, it’s pathetic how this small action means a lot to me coming from a man. And also because he's not like that. Not like I thought he'd be.
When I told him that there was a museum not so far from St. Ellesta he hesitated for a second before nodding like he was interested in it. I know he’s not. But he still sounded convinced as if he knew I loved this place and it was enough for him to love it too.
I do love museums. I always have. It's art in its saddest form. Everything is trying to stay upright without collapsing while you're looking at it.
It’s calm and filled with so much soul.
We stroll between the rooms, as if we had all the time in the world. I don't know why, but I end up speaking without really thinking.
“When I was younger, I used to come here alone a lot.”
I feel his hand tighten slightly on mine, without breaking stride. “Really?” He asks.
“Yeah. It’s not a big museum, but… it made me want to draw more than before.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He looks at the walls, the statues, then at me, as if he’s trying to connect the dots. “Is that why you draw on the tables in class? Even during my lessons?”
I look at him immediately. “You’re exaggerating.”
He smiles, not at all agreeing with me and sighs. “Eyes and lilies everywhere on those poor tables.”
I shake my head, a little amused despite myself. “That wasn't real drawing.”
“What was it then?”
I think for a second. “Artistic boredom.”
That makes him chuckle a bit. “That's also why you spend so much time staring at the statue in the main courtyard.”
The sad angel...
“Don’t you find that statue sad? I like looking at it, it’s kind of calming. And the details on that are insane.”
“I never looked at it enough.”
“Why is that? We sat there together a lot of times,” I ask, looking back at him.
“I was busy looking at something else that was just as sad as the statue is,” he says, taking my hand and bringing it near his mouth.
Then he lightly bites my hand.
My reaction makes him laugh as I pull back, with a gasp, noticing the mark he left on my skin.
“Asshole,” I whisper, and he laughs even harder.
He grabs my waist and pushes me forward, leaving a small kiss on my hair as we keep walking. And then he adds, more seriously, “You know, it turned out pretty well for you.”
I turn my head toward him. “What?”
“Drawing.”
I shrug, as if it doesn't really matter. “Trust me, back then they were awful.”
He looks at me immediately. “I think you're lying.”
I pause for a moment, and I think back, without really meaning to… To that time.
When my mother died, when my father became increasingly violent, when everything started falling apart without anyone on the outside really noticing.
The years when my body got broken more times than it has ever been healed.
My drawings were full of shaky lines, of shapes that didn't really make sense. Monsters. Things that resembled what I felt more than what I saw. Nothing pretty, nothing calm.
Even the thoughts written next to them were messy. Every drawing was pure noise on paper.
I swallow hard, trying to smile because I don’t want to worry him. “I was a very sad little girl back then,” I finally say quietly. “And my drawings were just as sad.”
He doesn’t answer right away, he just… stays next to me. As if silence was something he never felt the need to fix when it happened between us.
I keep walking, but nothing really holds my attention the way he does. Everything else fades a little too fast; the portraits, the statues, everything. My focus keeps returning to him.
“I prefer your current version then,” he says softly.
“The one who draws on the desks in class?”
“That one,” he confirms, full of confidence.
“So you’re encouraging bad behavior, then?”
He shrugs, “Precisely.”
We keep walking by statues, and beautiful paintings, all of it sliding past like it’s not really part of the same world we’re in.
Everything is still and composed. And all I can feel is him.
His hand is still in mine. His presence is still next to me.
His warmth is still here. I notice it again, then I stop noticing it. Then I noticed it again.
His thumb moves once, then again, and for some reason, my heart follows the movement.
I look away from the art without meaning to, floating around with a warm feeling in my chest.
“You know…” he says. I turn my head and he’s not looking at me yet. “I’ll make sure your future self never has to draw sad things.”
I swallow, but it doesn’t really help, because my mind immediately does that thing where it tries to understand it, then stops halfway through the thinking.
Future self.
I never really imagined there would be a future version of me.
For a long time, I didn’t think I was meant to become anything that came after.
I didn’t think I’d still be here, still breathing through days I once thought I wouldn’t survive.
Still learning how to exist in a world I kept trying to leave.
Future me, not drawing sad things anymore.
Not together, or maybe together. I don’t know why that thought even comes.
I keep walking but my steps feel slightly off for a second, like I forgot the rhythm we had and need to find it again. His hand doesn’t change, it still is holding mine like it never considered doing anything else.
I glance at him, and I think, stupidly, and quietly, that no one has ever said anything about my future like it included them in it.
We turn a corner and stop in front of a bench.
A portrait hangs there above it, darker than the others.
The face is still, in a painful, unfinished way, like it’s been left behind rather than painted.
Sad, almost, as if the painter tried to leave something of himself behind after everything else had already gone, his life included.
Damien pulls me down with him, and suddenly we’re sitting side by side. The bench creaks softly under us, but neither of us moves after that.
We just stay there, facing the portrait like it asked us to stop. It feels strange how natural that is. How easy it becomes to exist beside someone without needing to justify the space you take.
His hand is still in mine. Fingers intertwined, and carefully linked.
“Don’t you ever think it’s a little insane… this need to be remembered?” I say, without thinking.
He turns his head slightly. “What do you mean?”
I gesture vaguely toward the room, the portraits, the statues frozen in their borrowed forever.
“All of this. The faces, the bodies, the emotions. The way everything is preserved like it matters beyond the moment it was lived. It’s like the human mind can’t accept the idea of disappearing.
Like we’d rather become something still than nothing at all. ”
“Don’t you?” he asks.
I let out a quiet breath, my gaze drifting back to the painting in front of us. The face in it looks like it’s been waiting longer than it should have for peace.
“I don’t think I have that in me,” I admit, sounding softer now.
“The ache to last forever, to be known by strangers, to leave something behind just so I’m not completely gone.
” My fingers curl slightly against his palm before I even notice it.
“If anything… I think I’d rather exist in a smaller way. ”
He turns his head slightly, not fully, “So what do you draw for?”
I don’t answer right away, my eyes stay on the portrait, but I’m not really seeing it anymore. I’m somewhere else, somewhere smaller, older. I’m on the cliff, with her, still making wishes. Still waiting for the pain to leave us alone.
“I don’t know…” My voice comes out softer than I expect. “Don’t you think we leave parts of ourselves to other people?”
I feel him watching me now, properly, but I don’t look back. If I do, I’ll stop speaking.
“You probably remember a stranger who smiled at you once,” I continue, my fingers moving faintly against my own hand. “Or someone who made you listen to a song, and now it doesn’t feel like yours anymore. It feels like them.”
My throat tightens a little, but I keep going anyway.
“I draw that. Moments like that. A hand touching mine. A reassuring smile. Even… things that hurt. Things people leave behind without realizing how fucked it was.” The last part comes out lower. “It’s to remember them…But I never draw myself. I don’t want to remember myself as someone.”
His hand comes up to my face, and it catches me off guard in the softest way, and then he kisses me.
Everything else disappears.
The museum, the stillness, the painting behind us, it all fades into something distant and blurry. There’s just the warmth of his mouth, the way his fingers hold me in place without forcing anything. I don’t even realize I’ve leaned into him until he pulls back.
“Now,” he murmurs. “you’ll remember this.” His eyes stay on mine, like he’s making sure of it. “And you’ll draw it. Us. Just to remember how it felt.”
I nod and the smile that formed on my mouth is new to me. “I will.”
I keep looking at him, longer than I should, like something in me is already trying to hold onto this moment before it’s even gone.
“Would you remember me if I died?”
I don’t even fully understand why I asked it. But it’s there now, between us.
He doesn’t hesitate when he replies, “I’d remember you for the rest of my life, Mireya.” His eyes meet mine, soft and gentle. “And you?”
His fingers trace along my jaw absentmindedly, waiting for me to give an answer.
A long breath escaped my lips. “I’d spend my entire life drawing you, Damien.”
“Deal.” He looks satisfied with my answer as he smiles, and adds softly, “No need to leave your mark in this life then?”
“As long as you always remember me, I’ll be immortal,” I reply, mirroring his grin.