Tell Me This Then

Leisha holds the brush in-between her index and middle finger, tapping the end of the painting tool on the palette. She eyes her current piece. Her eyebrows scrunch together forming crinkles in the centre of her forehead.

She dabs the furry end of the brush on a new colour, mixing it in with the artwork. "No," she mutters. "It's not working."

Grabbing a clean wet cloth, she wipes her canvas clean. Though there is still paint marks she doesn't care. It bothers her, really. To know she can't come up with new ideas.

In a short amount of time, she tidied up her mess, gathering the old paintings, brushes, canvases, photographs and unused paint, shoving them all back in her painting cupboard. She gazes up at the clock above the cupboard. Dread fills her.

Leisha sits down on her bed, curling against the biggest pillow. She reaches over for her phone on the bedside table. She waits, clutching the device tightly. In a few minutes she will receive a call.

Someone yells from downstairs making the anxious girl jump. "Lish!" She hears her younger sister. "Someone's here for you."

"Who!?" she shouts back.

"Someone special," Yvette sings, teasing.

The girl on the bed immediately cowers back. She is unable to face the person on the other side of the door. "Tell 'em I'm not here."

"Whatever." That person who is frantically knocking on her door, begging to be let in is the person she has been dying to see. But at the same time, will hate to look into his warm brown eyes again.

Several minutes pass by. Each one taking longer than the last. She needs the time though. She needs extra moments to decide and to prepare for whoever is on the other line.

Leisha can prevent everyone from going crazy or she can vent to her heart's content. They would either stop bothering her - because they will already know the truth - or they'll stick their noses into her own life even more. However, the latter option would make her selfish.

This shouldn't be difficult at all. Leisha drops the phone beside her, folding her knees, so her legs are against her chest. Curling into a fetal position always used to calm her down.

The worst kind of love is the one when you want someone but you know you can’t have them. The sentence scratches at the furthest crevices of her head.

Her ringtone scares her. She reaches for the phone. "Leisha, you ha-"

"I've made up my mind." She takes a deep breath. "No I'm not doing it."