"Ib! You're spacing out again!" Mary whined.
I quickly looked up from my food, and peered at Mary. I quickly said, "Oh. I'm sorry. I just can't stop thinking about the gallery… I feel like I left something there..."
Mary frowned, and my mother turned to me. "It's okay, Ib. You're probably just a little tired. Besides, looking at such lovely artwork can be an inspirational experience, and often leaves you wanting more. We can go back another day. Mom looked like she was about to say something more, but then Mary spoke. "I didn't like it." She said, bitterly. "It was boring." I stared intently at my dinner, which I had barely touched.
Once we got home, Mary practically leapt through the door. Classic Mary. Her smile is perpetual. I gave my sister a half-hearted smile, and trudged up the stairs, and into my room.
I stepped inside my room, and gently shut the door. I kicked off my shoes, and flopped onto my dark blue comforter. I sighed. Everything just feels… wrong. It's like there's something missing from my life, but I can't figure out what. I thought back to when I was looking at one of the paintings I saw. The Forgotten Portrait. It showed a tall, purple-haired man holding a blue rose. He appeared to be sleeping. Mary insisted that he was dead, but I think otherwise. That's strange. Mary's always been the more opinionated one. Usually, I'd just let it go. But not this this time. It was as though I felt an emotional connection. An emotional connection to that portrait. It feels like I knew that man, but I know that's not possible. Guertena rarely painted real people. But that painting felt almost alive. I rolled over and checked the clock above my desk. 1:47. I was about to go to sleep, when a peculiar sight caught my eye. I slowly sat up, got off of my bed, and cautiously walked over to my desk. It's a rose. A blue rose. But who could have put it here? I've been in here since we got home. I turned around and started walking swiftly toward the door. I've gotta tell Mary. But once I touched the door handle, I abruptly stopped. When I thought about talking to Mary, I felt a sick feeling in my stomach. I can't tell her. I had no clue why, but I felt that it would be a bad idea to tell my sister. Why? I don't know. But something inside of me knew that this was something that I could not trust Mary with.