The rain-soaked street glistened, reflecting the faint glow of streetlights. The night air was crisp and cool as a gentle wind blew. It was a perfect night despite the raging storm that had sent people scurrying for shelter, frightened for their lives. It had seemed like the storm would pull down buildings or break electricity poles, but fortunately, it was short-lived.
The once deserted sidewalks gradually began filling with footsteps as people emerged from their hiding places. The street was eerily quiet; small businesses had shut down for the day, and those flooding the streets were simply trying to get home after being caught in the storm.
It felt strangely satisfying to watch them rush home. Some still held their umbrellas aloft and the colorful canopies under the glow of the streetlights created a soothing sight.
I withdrew from the window where I had stood, absorbing every detail of the night, right from when the storm began brewing. I picked up my brush, ready to paint. I wanted to capture something about the street—something beautiful, like the colorful umbrellas and the glistening street under the streetlights. I hoped this attempt would be different because, no matter how hard I tried to create something uplifting, my art always ended up looking morbid.
I dipped my brush into the brown paint and made circular strokes on the canvas. My heart skipped a beat, and I glanced out the window again. That’s when I noticed something new, something that hadn’t been there before.
There he was, squatting in one of the puddles, clutching a rose in one hand while the other gripped the back of his neck. His face was long and flushed, his pants wet and rolled up to his knees. He appeared muscular, possibly tall, as his knees almost touched his chest while he squatted.
“Rejection,” I sighed, dipping my brush into another color. My hands moved instinctively, following the rhythm of my heart, while my eyes remained fixed on him. I just wanted to capture the moment on my canvas. I hoped it wouldn’t turn into another morbid painting.
For thirty minutes, I painted and watched him. He didn’t move. He became my unpaid model. It felt like the universe had placed him there just for me. But part of me wanted to reach out to him. “Maybe I will,” I whispered, turning my attention back to the painting.
To be continued.