#maybe ill try painting some lu pictures? :)

[majorproblems77]

So I kept hearing about how art can be relaxing and stuff. Just messing with colours and such.

So blanket fort time today is art time and I found a water colour pallet to give it a go and god damn I wish my art teacher at school had actually encouraged me to keep going and trying cause this is fun.

I've just been swatching the paint but I'm enjoying it :)

[wallpapernifty]

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[birdiethebibliophile]

{fic} Bright-Eyed and Bushy-Tailed (part 3)

Word Count:  3.3k Relationship:  Lucien/Cassian Characters:  Lucien, Cassian, Nesta, Mor Warnings:  Just some regular ole Sadness in this chapter

Here on AO3.

(Tagging @squaddreamcourt so you don’t miss this one! :) )

__________________

They were finally there, and Lucien wouldn’t get out of the truck.

“No,” he said flatly, head back against the seat. “No, Cass, okay?”

“Come on, Lu,” Cassian said, exasperated. “It’s not going to kill you.”

“Fuck off, Cassian.”

Cassian studied the other man through the open window. Body limp, as if he’d been tossed into the vehicle by someone who didn’t both to arrange his limbs properly. Eyes staring straight out the windshield. Mouth set in a line – Lucien’s normally thin lips, quick to smirk or snark, were almost invisible.

“It’s just the library, Lucien,” Cassian said quietly.

“Maybe I’ve become suddenly and dramatically allergic to paper. Ever thought of that?”

Cassian paused, then slowly went back around to the driver’s side of the truck and got in.

They sat that way – both looking forwards, neither acknowledging the other – for nearly fifteen minutes.

Lucien was the first one to crack, letting out a long, shaky breath. “Sorry.”

“No. I’m sorry,” Cassian said. “I should’ve listened to you the first time. Forgive me?”

Lucien nodded. “Yeah.”

Cassian glanced at him. “Is it… a job in general? Or libraries in particular? Or…”

“Both,” Lucien said after a moment. “My dad – my birth dad –” Cassian shifted, but didn’t ask him to clarify. “– has a thing with libraries. But more than that…” He paused to brace himself. “What if I can’t get a job? If I’m not qualified, or not what they want, or just not – enough?”

“Then we’ll find you a different one,” Cassian said. “All sorts of morons get jobs. Hell, all sorts of morons run this city, and yes, I include Rhys in that count. The question really is, do you want to try?”

Lucien stared out the windshield, russet eye blank.

“It doesn’t have to be today.” Cassian had just taken Lucien to therapy for the third time, and he knew the other man could be a bit… vulnerable afterwards. He should’ve remembered this – should’ve planned accordingly – but he’d been too excited about his idea. There was just something about Lucien that occasionally made him lose his mind utterly, which he also should’ve remembered.

“No. Today isn’t that much worse than any other day would be.” Lucien exhaled again, like he was reminding himself to breathe. “Just… give me a minute.”

Cassian nodded, pulling out his phone. He’d come to realize, even in the short time he’d known Lucien, that this happened a lot – gaps of silence that the other man seemed to need to catch up. Slow down. Get centered. Cassian didn’t really know which. Cassian was already used to filling these spaces with silent tasks. He’d read, or watch MMA videos with one headphone in, or text his brothers to tell them when he was free to get drinks. Lucien didn’t mind. He appreciated it, in fact – it allowed them communion without Lucien feeling like he was taking over Cassian’s life.

“All right,” Lucien said, sitting up in his seat.

Cassian turned off his phone and slipped it back into the pocket of his jeans. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

They both got out of the truck, Cassian locking the doors behind them, then headed across the parking lot to the library.

It was an oddly incongruous building, even in the mainly-residential area where Cassian spent most of his time. It was all sharp, elegant angles on the outside: crystal-clear windows and navy blue accents and LIBRARY printed in large, serifed letters over the front door. But once they got inside, Cassian thought as they walked through the heavy glass doors, it was very different. The walls were painted a comforting peachy-pink, and Cassian knew from experience that as long as you behaved and treated the books well, there were little nooks with rocking chairs and beanbags where you could stay for as long as you wanted. It was a haven, and had been as long as he remembered. He often saw homeless people, both men and women, sleeping at the worn wooden tables, and there were always a few tired adults printing out coupons for cat food or lugging their young children to storytime in the warm, brightly-lit basement. Once you got past the austere exterior, it was a place of safety.

It was, Cassian thought, not unlike the woman who worked there.

“Nesta,” he said, a smile spreading across his face as they approached the circulation desk.

The brown-haired woman, who looked to be in her late thirties, examined Cassian over the top of her glasses. “Cassian,” she said shortly.

He leaned against the desk, bracing his forearms on the surface. “C’mon, Nes, aren’t you glad to see me?”

“Not until you’ve paid your fines,” she said, turning a page in her book.

Cassian’s smile fell. “Damn. I forgot all about that. How much?” He dug in his pockets, pulling out his wallet.

“Six dollars and twenty-two cents,” Nesta said without looking up.

Cassian counted out the cash and placed it on the desk. “Now are you glad to see me?”

Nesta gathered up the money, counted it twice, put it in the register nearby, then typed something into the computer. Finally, she looked up, taking off her glasses and closing them with a small click. Her blue-grey eyes took both of them in, and the corner of her mouth quirked slightly. “Let’s go with that I don’t object to your presence. Who’s your little friend?” She pointed at Lucien with her glasses.

“This is Lucien,” Cassian said, stepping back to stand beside him.

“Nes? Who’re you talking to?” A lovely woman with blonde hair going grey at the roots and warm brown eyes strode out of the back office. She was wearing a sharp business suit. Her face tightened as she took them in. “Lucien Kelly. What are you doing here?”

Lucien looked vaguely ill. “I should go,” he muttered, turning as if to leave.

“Wait,” Cassian said. “Mor? A word?”

Mor waited until the door to Nesta’s office was closed before exploding – quietly. “What the hell, Cassian?” she hissed.

“I could ask you the same,” he snapped, then sighed. “Sorry. Listen. I know you haven’t spent a lot – any – time with him, but it’s not what you think. Feyre brought him with her because he was a victim of Tamlin’s abuse just as much as she was. I don’t know his whole story, but he’s gone through some shit, and he needs a fresh start.”

Mor tapped the toe of her shoe lightly on the carpet as she thought. Finally, she ran a hand through her hair, raised her eyes to heaven, and nodded. “You know I’d never deny a trauma victim help,” she said. “And I suppose as long as Feyre’s forgiven him…”

“She has. He’s been living with her and Rhys, actually.”

“Which he didn’t bother to tell me about,” Mor added in a grumpy sort of voice.

Cassian smiled. “You sound like Nes. She’s rubbing off on you.”

Mor’s face softened at the mention of her wife. “Well, we have been married nearly ten years. I should hope so.”

“Just give him a chance, Mor,” Cassian said softly. “Please. For me.”

Mor nodded. “I will. Can’t promise anything about Nesta, though.”

“Oh, I think they’ll get along swimmingly,” Cassian said, pushing the door back open and heading out from behind the desk.

“Who will?” Nesta asked, one finger marking her place in her book.

“You and Lucien,” Cassian said. “Seeing as he’s applying for a job here.”

Nesta’s gaze snapped to Lucien. “You are, are you?”

Lucien shifted slightly. “I was hoping so. Are there… forms I can fill out, something like that?”

Nesta sighed, flipped through a folder, and handed him a few sheets stapled together. “Get this back to me by the end of the day today,” she instructs. “And I’ll consider it.”

“I won’t have any references.”

“You have Cassian,” Nesta remarked. Something like a smile crossed her face. “In terms of character, at least, I trust his word. You’ll have to prove the rest of it.”

“Thanks,” Lucien said. “Cass… do you mind if…?” He gestured to the forms.

“Not at all. Here – I’ll show you someplace to fill them out.” Cassian grabbed a pen from the desk, winked at Nesta (who scowled at him), and led the way deeper into the library.

“So,” Lucien said, following Cassian through the shelves.

“So,” Cassian agreed.

“Nesta seems… nice.”

“She warms up to you,” Cassian said.

“How long have you two known each other?”

“For what seems like forever,” he replied. “She worked here as a volunteer when I was a kid. She was just a teenager herself, then, but she’d keep an eye on me when I’d sleep at the tables, you know? Make sure no one disturbed me…”

“You…” Lucien sounded startled.

Cassian glanced over his shoulder. “I was homeless, on my own, from when I was about five to a few months after I turned nine,” he said baldly. “That’s when Rhys and his mom came into the picture. Spoiled little rich kid that Rhys was, he saw me on the street and asked in that snotty way he still has sometimes why I was so dirty. Obviously, I punched him in the face.”

Lucien’s eye widened. “What happened?”

Cassian laughed a little. “His mom broke us up before either of us could do anything but give each other bloody noses and a black eye apiece. She asked me if I had anywhere to sleep. I said no. She asked if I wanted one. I said yes.” Cassian turned away from Lucien again. “She… I was part of their family from then on. Just like that,” he said, blinking away the sudden sting of tears in his eyes. He’d thought fifteen years would make it hurt less. He’d been wrong.

“What… if you don’t mind talking about it,” Lucien ventured after a moment. “What happened to her? Rhys said his parents were dead.”

“Leukemia,” Cassian said softly. “When Rhys and I were fifteen and Azriel was thirteen.”

“I’m sorry.” Cassian stopped at the feeling of Lucien’s cool hand on his arm. “Cass?”

“Yeah?” He turned and looked at the other man.

“She sounds like a wonderful woman,” Lucien said. “And a wonderful mother.”

“She was.” Cassian swiped a quick hand across his face. “Here’s the place.” He sank into a nearby beanbag chair, leaving Lucien the cushioned chair before the table. “Take your time filling out the application. If I know Nesta, it’s long and complicated.”

“Right.” Lucien sat down and started filling in blanks, but then put the pen down. “So that’s Nesta. And Mor… knows me already.”

“She knows of you,” Cassian corrected. “She’s Rhys’s VP – they’re good friends. She would’ve heard about you from him or Feyre.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, by the way. I didn’t think she’d react like that. I didn’t think she’d even be here.”

Lucien propped his chin in one hand, balancing his elbow on the edge of the table. “I’m not really surprised. I can’t blame her. I… I let Tamlin abuse Feyre for months and turned a blind eye.” He tapped his cheekbone over his scar. “She was sick. She was my friend, and she was sick, and hurting, and I did nothing about it. She was right – what she said to me in that alley. I gave up on her.”

Cassian looked up sharply. Lucien’s skin had a pasty hue to it, and he looked like he was going to be sick. Immediately, Cassian got up and sat in the chair next to Lucien. “Lu?”

Lucien shook his head, eyes blind. “I told her not to take me with her,” he said hoarsely. “I told her… to leave me there…” His hands dropped into his lap. They were trembling.

“Lucien.” Very slowly, Cassian reached out and touched the backs of Lucien’s hands. “Listen to me. You’re here in the library. You’re safe. And it is not your fault.”

Lucien’s breath shuddered in his throat. He didn’t respond.

Cassian let the warm weight of his palms cover Lucien’s hands, which were splayed like he wasn’t aware of their presence. “Lucien,” he said again. “Tamlin hurt you, too. What he did isn’t your fault.” He swallowed, then, “You deserve to be safe. You deserve to be happy. And you deserve to have your own life. That’s why you’re here.”

Then he waited.

It was a long, long moment before Lucien’s eyes met his.

“What do you need?” Cassian asked.

“Just – just stay here for a minute. Like this. With your hands on mine,” Lucien whispered. His head tipped forward as if his neck couldn’t support it.

“Okay.”

Cassian didn’t know how long they sat there. He felt as if he could’ve sat there forever, with his hands resting on Lucien’s and the other man’s head bent, red hair falling in a curtain around his face. It was like a dream. They were both so quiet, he thought he could hear Lucien’s heartbeat. It sounded, in his head, like the whir of a hummingbird’s wings. Like when you listened to a baby’s heartbeat on an ultrasound and you couldn’t identify single beats – just a constant a-whoosh a-whoosh a-whoosh, as if the baby’s heart was beating so fast everything ran together. That’s what Lucien’s heart would sound like, Cassian thought. Quick as his tongue. Vulnerable as his soul.

Eventually, Lucien’s breath quieted, and he lifted his head. “Thanks,” he said, eyes still lowered.

“Hey. No problem,” Cassian said with a small smile. “Anytime.” He took his hands away, but immediately missed that point of contact. It felt like breaking a circuit – disconnected and wrong.

“I’ll, um, finish filling this out, then,” Lucien said, picking up his pen once more.

“Only do it if you want to,” Cassian told him. “I – you know, I didn’t ask if you wanted to work here, really. I won’t be offended if you want to try somewhere else.”

Lucien shook his head, pushing his hair out of his face and tucking it behind one ear. “No, I like it here,” he admitted. “It’s quiet. Organized. And I like books. I haven’t read a lot lately, and I’d like to start again.”

“What about Nesta?”

That actually drew a smile out of him. “I like her, too.”

“After one meeting?” Cassian leaned back in his chair with a laugh. “It usually takes people at least five to warm up to her at all. And most give up before then.”

“No, really,” Lucien said. “I mean, sure, she’s prickly, maybe even ornery, but she’s…” He trailed off, seemingly unable to find a suitable word.

“Safe,” Cassian said quietly.

Lucien turned to him. “Yeah. Safe. How… did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

“That this would be a good place for me.”

Cassian considered that, tipping his chair back on two legs. “Lucky guess?”

“Well – thanks. I owe you. Assuming I get the job.”

“As I said the other day, friends can do favors for each other,” Cassian said firmly. “If you really want to do me a favor in return, you can cook me dinner sometime. Rhys and Feyre have that nice kitchen, I’m sure they’d –”

“I can’t cook,” Lucien interrupted.

Cassian let his chair’s legs fall back to the floor with a thump. “When you say you can’t cook,” he began, “do you mean –”

“I can’t even crack an egg, Cass,” Lucien said, tone ironic. “I mean, I could microwave you a pizza, but I don’t think that’s exactly what you had in mind.”

“There’s only one solution to this, obviously,” Cassian informed him, leaning forwards and raising a single finger. “I have to teach you to cook.”

Color rose sharply in Lucien’s cheeks. It would’ve been hard for Cassian to believe he’d looked so sick a few minutes ago, if not for the lingering tremor in his hands. “I thought the point was for me to do something nice for you.”

“You will,” Cassian said with a grin. “You’ll give me an excuse to, one, make food for people, which is one of my favorite pastimes; two, teach someone something, which is my other one; and three, make sure you’ll never starve if you’re equipped with a stove, a frying pan, and an uncracked egg. You know the saying. Give a man a fish, and he’ll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish…”

“I already know how to fish,” Lucien informed him, his cheeks still rather pink.

“You do?” Cassian said. “You never cease to surprise me, Lu.”

Lucien smiled at that. “I camped a lot when I was younger. I, um, taught myself to catch trout in the streams.” He paused. “With my bare hands.”

“Lucien,” Cassian said, genuinely impressed. “That’s some Mulan shit right there. I’m impressed, bro.”

Lucien ducked his head to hide his growing smile. “One of my few talents. Along with charming business moguls and arranging flowers.”

“All right, then if I ever need any flowers arranged, you’re the man I’ll call,” Cassian said. “And you can teach me the fish-catching thing sometime. Deal?”

“Deal,” Lucien agreed. “How do you know how to cook, anyways?”

“Rhys’s mom made sure we all knew how to do that kind of stuff. Cook, clean, do our own laundry. She didn’t want us to be…” Cassian trailed off uncertainly. “…dependent on anyone.”

“Makes sense,” Lucien said with a sigh. “You can see where that gets you. Twenty-six, unemployed, and living in your friend’s apartment.”

“Not unemployed for long,” Cassian reminded him, tapping the application. “You done with that?”

“Yeah, almost.” Lucien bent over the forms again. After a moment, though, he straightened up again. “Why the hell does she want me to say what my favorite food is?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s so if she finds any food stains in her books, she can identify the culprit,” Cassian said. “I think she started that a couple years ago after an employee left boysenberry jam all over her favorite copy of On the Back of the North Wind.”

Lucien shrugged and started writing. Cassian craned his neck, but he couldn’t read Lucien’s spiky handwriting upside down.

“Would you like to see?”

Cassian started, his neck heating, to find Lucien smirking at him. “You seem curious. Here.” He flipped the paper around.

Apple pie, Cassian read. “I would’ve thought you’d like some neo-vegan crap.”

Lucien pulled the papers back towards him and started writing again. “I’m vegetarian, not vegan, Cass,” he reminded the other man. “Also, just because I don’t eat meat, it doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy food.”

“Wait.” Cassian narrowed his eyes. “You said you caught fish.”

Lucien flushed, glancing up. “Guilty. Fish is different. Sometimes I’m a pescatarian?”

Cassian laughed. “I’m not judging you. So, hypothetically, if I cooked salmon sometime, would you eat it?”

“Probably,” Lucien admitted. “My doctor says it’s good for me to get whatever good oils and stuff are in fish.”

“And also you like it.”

Lucien glared at him. Cassian just lifted his eyebrows, so he sighed. “Yes. And also I like it.” He put down his pen. “There. Application complete.”

“Awesome.” Cassian checked his watch, stood up, and stretched. “Back to the circulation desk, and then do you want me to drop you off at Feysand’s before my class at four?”

“Yeah, sure.” Lucien stood up as well. “Let’s go.”

 It wasn’t until Cassian stopped the truck in front of Rhys and Feyre’s place that Lucien asked, “Cass? Do you really think I could get that job?”

“Yeah,” Cassian said. “And not just because I’m your friend. I really do.”

“We’re not friends,” Lucien said automatically, but he was smiling all the way up to the door, when he turned and waved at Cassian before the other man drove away.

[bba-sae]

The Painter’s Muse

OMG ANON THANK YOU! I always love getting requests, they’re so fun. I hope you like it anon! Tbh, I never considered writing a Minghao imagine, but I like how it ended up(:

Pairing: Minghao/Reader

Genre: Soulmate!AU

Word Count: 3K

Summary: You’ve sworn you seen the girl in the painting, staring contently at you, you just don’t remember ever posing for the picture centuries before. 

Author’s note: I never really thought of writing a soulmate AU, but I decided that a reincarnation one was the only one that makes sense. I read soulmate AU’s a lot, and I love them, it’s just sometimes things don’t add up. Thats why Minghao’s names are different in his past life times, because I feel like that makes the most sense, also I just FINISHED GOBLIN. Which plays with the same idea and I will forever be obsessed with the grim reaper and sunny. THEY WERE SO DAMN CUTE. Someone hold me, I’m still recovering from the drama. 

You were exploring the numerous corridors of the art museum, the still life that surrounded you brought a sense of serenity and peace of mind. A hand grazed the empty walls, the engraved name plates, the open air in which you would let your fingers trace the outline of each painting from afar. You closed one eye to focus on the pieces, your hand slowly raising, trying to replicate every stroke that fabricated the scenery before you.

Your interest in art always came naturally, an affinity towards paintings manifested in your early years, and you followed it blindly towards an entire education based around the major. It was almost as if you were destined to pursue the world of art. 

The group you had visited the museum with huddled in front of a piece, whispers growing louder as you walked closer. Heads peeked up above the crowd, as if looking out for a certain person. It came to your surprise when the pair of eyes landed on you, another student stepping out of the crowd and raising an arm to point at your figure. 

“You, that’s you.” He proclaimed, his other hand steadily pointing at the painting to the right of him. You tilted your head in confusion, unsure what the exact topic the boy was referring to. He sighed, a groan in frustration really, as he continued, “the girl in this painting, it’s you. It is the spitting image of you.” He said slowly, the group beside him dispersing so you could make your way toward the painting.

You walked closer, the painting still not catching your eyes as you focused more on the student. “The painting? It can’t be, all these paintings are decades, centuries old. There’s no way that it could look that much like me, you guys suck at these things anyways. Just because they have the same skin tone and vaguely similar eyes doesn’t mean they're the same person.” You laughed before continuing, not believing their claims one bit, “That would be im- holy shit thats me.” Your eyes fell on the painting for the first time. Your mouth fell open, as if unable to comprehend the situation at hand. 

There was no way you could look at this painting and not believe the girl in the painting was you. You traced every contour and curve of her face with your eyes, the action feeling brutally familiar to you. In fact, you had done this a thousand times before, whenever you took the time to analyze your own face in the mirror. It was the same, anyway you looked at it. 

“It gets better.” The same student commented, directing your vision to the rest of the walls, adorned with five more paintings, with the same spitting image of you as the subject. “read the name plates.” You nodded, as you walked down the exhibition, reading each and every gold plate beneath the piece. The first four, you discovered, were painted by the same individual, a fact that did not surprise you. It was the last one, a solemn portrait of you, a faint trace of sadness laced within the strokes of paints, in which the artist had surprised you. It was different. A name you had not known but differed from the previous ones before. 

“So what? The second artist must really admire the others work.” You replied with disbelief, shaking your head at the prospect. Another female student spoke up to disagree. 

“That can’t be, I did research, the first painter’s pieces weren’t discovered until the late 20th century and the family who had them kept them locked up before they were found. The last painting was from the later 19th century. There’s no way he would have seen those paintings.” You laughed, because that’s the only thing you could think to do at that point. The coincidence making you nervous. 

“Okay, well people look alike all the time, I must have a doppelgänger from the past.” You tried to argue, only to be shot down once again by the same student.

“No doppelgängers look that similar. None are the exact, spitting image of each other. That just doesn’t happen.” The girl replied, trying to help you understand what was happening. She lifted her phone, a picture of a boy displayed on the screen. “This is the second artist. Apparently, he spent his entire life painting pieces exactly like that one. He said he was the reincarnation of another artist, and he had lost his love. He painted that girl, well, you, even though he had never met her. His peers said they had never seen the girl, he just painted from memories, from his ‘past life’” she put air quotes around the last two words. “Eventually he was locked up because everyone thought he was insane, because he was obsessed with finding you, his soulmate.”

“Woah, woah, woah. Hold on right there. Why do you keep saying me? It’s not like I am that girl. I’m here, in the 21st century, I am not some chick from the past.” You waved your hands in disapproval, feeling a strange surge of anxiety shoot through you. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but a piece of suddenly felt as if it was missing. You felt in your chest, burning through your heart. 

“I’m not saying it’s you completely, I’m saying it’s who you used to be.” She said calmly, as if feeling your nervousness between the few feet that separated the two of you. “Just, look at this portrait of the artist. Maybe it will trigger something in you.” She reached her arm out, holding the phone for you to grab. You walked slowly towards your peer, reaching for the phone and holding it to your face, scared of what might happen.

You knew him. 

But you didn’t.

But oh god did it feel like you did.

Suddenly, the pain in your heart felt stronger than ever. You grasped the skin on your chest, trying to relieve some of the pain. You felt empty, unable to hold back the overwhelming sadness that beat on your insides. You were crying. But why were you crying. You had no idea who this person was, yet you felt like you had just lost the most important person in your life. Your breath became heavier and you felt your body go limp. All at once you were on the floor, students flooding to accompany you. One student held up your body while the female student you spoke to before crouched in front of you, grabbing the phone from you.

“Do you believe in reincarnation, y/n? Soulmates? Fate?”  She looked at you, much more concerned for your wellbeing than to hear your answer. You wiped a tear from your face, trying to steady your breathing as much as you could.

“No.” You said weakly, and quite unconvincingly at that.

“Maybe you should start.” Was all she said in reply.

A week passed since you visited the museum, your peers began treating you like glass, as if you were deathly ill. Everyday, a new student turned to you and quietly whispered to you as if their voice alone would make you shatter into a thousand pieces, “Do you remember?”

You always shook your head in reply because you really didn’t remember. But oh god did you desperately want to. You studied the painter’s face every night since that day, researching every fact about his life and the other artist’s life. Though there wasn’t much about either of them, you took in as much as you could. 

The first artist. Lu Chao. Son of wealthy merchant during early Qing Dynasty. Qing Dynasty: a period in which many Ming loyalists lived in self-enforced retirement. Often lacking access to important collections of old masters, loyalist artists drew inspiration from natural beauty.

Second artist. Li Ming. Born: 1864 Died: 1891. Often wrote stories about what he believed to be his past life, when he was a wealthy merchant and wrote many letters to his lost love. Painted and sketched hundreds of portraits of the same woman, unable to identify. Died in mental asylum from malnourishment in 1891.

He was only 27 when he died- you thought often. For some reason, your heart hurt at that fact. The throbbing feeling had you gasping for air, and a heavy weight on your shoulders seemed to have pressed onto you further. You analyzed a picture of Ming every night, almost going mad at the sight. It’s as if the memories would flood your mind at every moment, and you no longer had to pick apart the details of his face. 

“Do you remember?” A familiar voice peeked your interest. It was the girl from the other day, you had learned her name in the days she prodded at you for answers. Hana. A peculiar girl, far more interest in the idea of reincarnation than you were, that is, until now. 

“No, I don’t.” You said curtly, the routine was blasé by now. Hana shook her head, as if you had the choice to remember or not. 

“Maybe you’re not trying hard enough.”

“What does that even mean? We don’t even know if that’s actually me! Everyone is just overreacting about everything.” 

She looked at you as if you were the crazy one and crossed her arms in front of her chest, “Impossible. No one starts sobbing at the sight of someone they have absolutely no association to.”

“It could have been heart burn. I’m getting old after all.” That earned a snort from the girl beside you. 

“You and I both know that’s a lie. You felt something, and you still feel something. I can tell, just try a little harder.” Your gaze shifted from Hana to the ground, your entire being feeling empty once again.

“How do I do that.” You replied meekly, earning a sympathetic look from Hana. After all, you were trying, desperately, completely and boldly trying to remember.

Her hand rested on your shoulder, circling the surface in an act of comfort,“Look at the paintings again.” she suggested. You laughed before looking at her. 

“I do. Every night.” 

“No, the real paintings. They’re doing a whole show about it at another art museum, ‘the phenomenon of another life’ is what they’re calling it. They plan on bringing in Li Ming’s other sketches and Lu Chao’s paintings too. It’s a different museum, and it’s a little farther but it might help y-”

“I’m going. When is it?” Hana smiled at you before squeezing your shoulder lightly.

“This weekend.”

The days leading up to the weekend felt slower than they should have. It was only two days, yet they felt more like centuries. You had took the long commute to the museum off a whim that maybe, just maybe you could sort your whole life out. Whole lives out, to be correct. 

The museum was busy, other spectators and fanatics browsed the gallery, amazed at the coincidence. You walked through the corridors, observing each sketch and reading each plate about the artists. Each placard had facts you knew, you had read them a thousand times before. 

It didn’t take long for someone to mention your uncanny similarity to the girl the whole gallery seemed to be based on. In fact, as soon as you were greeted at the door, an employee had paused mid sentence and pointed a finger at your figure.

“Y-you. You’re, you are the girl in the paintings.” The young employee looked amazed, catching the attention of many bystanders Soon, a whole crowd surrounded you, commenting about your appearance. You let out a laugh and smiled at them.

“I believe I’m just confused as you are. Trust me, I’m only a college student, not from the Qing dynasty or 19th century at all.” 

Though you had explained yourself, you had felt the stares wherever you went feeling more uncomfortable the longer you were there. You tried to shrug off the attention, expecting everyone to want answers as much as you did. 

It was further into the gallery, where you were no longer surrounded by painted canvases or messy sketches of your face. Instead, you were surrounded by letters, hundreds of them. The writing scribbled and frantic looking. Each one beginning in the same way; my love, I’ve missed you. 

You walked further, to one letter that rested neatly in a display case. A letter written by the same artist, days before he had died. He had wrote them until his death, relentlessly chasing after the girl he never met, you.  The writing was large, in bold characters. It began like all the others.

My love, I’ve missed you.

I believe I’ll miss you everyday, and everyday after I die, and everyday in my new lifetime if I am not lucky enough to have you again. The people tell me I’m crazy, but I know I’m not. Whatever life I may be cursed in, I will remember you despite the circumstance. You are my love, you are my life, and I will always run to you in every century I am given. I am sorry I could not find you. Any pain or sorrow you shall feel, please give them to me for I only want you to feel the eternal love and happiness the world showered you with in the past life. This is all I can hope for you.

Until the next,

Ming

It hurt. Everything hurt at once. Your hand laid flat against the glass, fingers beginning to curl at the cruel pain that threatened your sanity. You were sobbing, uncontrollably and all you wanted to do was know why. You left your love, and this fact hurt more than ever. He had waited for you, he had remembered you, and you couldn’t. What kind of monster were you that you would forget the man who remember you through lifetimes. You wanted to scream, you wanted to apologize, you wanted him. 

“Tragic, isn’t it?” A voice spoke behind you, you had hoped this is what he said as you couldn’t clearly hear him over your loud sobs. You hadn’t looked up yet when you replied.

“Completely.” Was all you could muster up. The boy behind you paused before introducing himself.

“I’m Minghao.” He said, as if waiting for a reaction. You shrugged off the name, too sad to even listen. You gave him your name, the sound of it making him smile almost instantly.

Your eyes traced the signature, engraving it into your mind to remember forever. For that was all you could do, remember his past now, as if you never forgot. “He must have been furious, she never found him, she forgot all about him, and now there’s nothing left.”

“Well, not quite,” The voice spoke again from behind you, “Maybe he knew he would find her again. The time he was without her, it was temporary, a test from the universe to force them find each other again after a lifetime apart. Of course, he remembered her through all of his lifetimes, but he couldn’t be angry that she didn’t. Fate is cruel, it’s merciless, but in the end it’s beautiful. He knew this fact, he still knows this fact and he definitely still loves her.” Your breath paused, the voice behind seeming louder in your mind than it should have. 

“Still?” 

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” You stood up straight, hands gliding over the glass as you turned. 

The portrait, the face you had memorized, the one you had forgotten, he was there. He was actually there. The boy saluted at you, a smile on his lip despite the tears that were falling down his cheeks. 

It was then, when you looked into his eyes, everything had blasted through you. A gust of memories, swirling around you and invading your mind completely. You had known him, you had seen him, you had loved him. You remembered a son of a wealthy merchant, one who painted you often, one who had smiled at you brightly in the late years of your life. Then you remembered the lifetime after that, memories of the previous life were carried with you yet the face of the man you had loved didn’t quite stick like yours did to his. But you remember his voice, a sweet melody that kept you company in the lonely days of your life. You remembered how sad you remained during that lifetime, hopelessly trying to find something that was a thousand miles away from you. You had died alone, of old age, no family or children to remember you. 

Both of you were crying now, the scene being observed from guests who recognized each of your faces. They knew. They knew exactly what they were witnessing, two lifetimes of love and a third being manifested right before their eyes.

It didn’t take long before one of you moved, you don’t know who but maybe you both came crashing towards each other at the same time. A pair of arms hastily wrapped around your waist, holding you as close to his body as possible. He separated from you for a split second to look at your face, eventually leaving trails of kisses everywhere he could. It was when he kissed your lips when you finally felt complete.

“My love, I’ve missed you.”