a/n: I haven't posted anything for a while, so I did this one-shot that I'm really proud of. This won my school's writing competiton, first place for short stories. Hope you like it :)

also, the part about "purest form of colour" and changing when you're at your purest form, isn't necessarily true. I just had to stick to the prompt. You can change anytime you like, regardless of your state.

disclaimer: I own nothing, and when I submitted this, original characters were used. also, this I was inspired by true events experienced by flawlessbieber . tumblr . com who is a fabulous artist who I will buy countless phone cases and pillows when I have money because I love her way too much.

also, let's say Katniss is the artist, and Peeta is the writer, mkay? And let's also say Katniss has an older sister and a younger brother.

posted for you, Laia :)

THE SUBWAY GUY, inspired by true events.

I walk for a long time. I'm still walking long after the other students from school have gone home. I reach my destination and I take comfort in the familiarity. The grime-covered seats are still dirty, and the sickly yellow lights are still flickering faintly on the other side of the rails. I sit on the cold, metallic seat by the tracks, and watch as another train rolls in.

I sigh and pull out my sketch-book, the papers rustling as they brush against my legs. Pulling a pencil out from behind my ear, I bite my lip and study the various people who pile onto the train.
I sketch each one of them quickly, trying to capture their most interesting features.
By the time the last person has stepped onto the train, I have three more pages filled with faces and people.
I take a quick trip to the washroom and as I wash my hands, I see my face in the mirror. Big gray eyes are bordered by a pair of thick framed glasses that sit on the bridge of my nose. My long and wavy hair is a tousled dark brown mess, and I can't help but let my eyes travel to the under of my eyes. I blink slowly, my eyelashes, untouched by mascara, scrape against the lenses of my glasses. I frown at the mirror and my shoulders deflate at my appearance.
I try to avoid my own eyes and look down as I dry my hands on the back of my jeans.

If only I was prettier.

If only I had more friends.

If only I weren't a disappointment.

I sigh.

I leave the washroom, and the old door swings behind me with a squeaking sound.

I sit back down in the cold dirty seat, and continue sketching people.

This goes on for another hour until my train shows up. By this time, my sketch-book has a few less empty pages. My train rolls in, and like always, not much people are my train.
I make my way to a window seat, to catch a glimpse of the spring sunset once the train goes above ground. I look down to my lap and notice a few more imperfections in my work, so I take the time to redo the sketches in a neater form.
I can hear a female's voice blaring out into the empty car, and just as the doors begin to slide closed, someone tumbles into the train, their belongings clattering in their backpack. The train begins to move, and the screeching of the wheels drowns out the subway guy's footsteps for a fleeting moment.
The train finally makes a consistent whirring sound that I've come to enjoy, and the subway guy settles into a seat that conveniently faces me. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

I can't see much in my peripheral vision, but I can just make out some short, blonde hair.

A twinge of annoyance bubbles up inside of me as I feel a curious gaze burning through my head, but I push the feelings down immediately. There are a million different reasons he could have chosen that seat. Perhaps he wanted a window seat but was courteous enough to choose one that wasn't so close to me, or maybe he really did find that seat comfortable and it was just a coincidence it was facing mine.
Yes, I think. That must be it.

Because if I'm being painfully honest with myself, nobody would want a seat that had me in their line of sight.

I have the kind of atmosphere that pushes people away, and it was hard to deal with sometimes.

My troubles in life have always been linked to my childhood. I was naturally quiet and shy, but my parents had a lot to do with how I am now. They loved me, yes, but they loved my siblings more.
My older sister was the smart one, the achieved one. She was sure to be a doctor or a lawyer or a rocket scientist in the future.
And my little brother was all-around and well-loved. He was a swimmer, and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he would be holding up a gold medal one day.

But me? I was the lonely one, the disappointment in the family. If you saw our family portrait, it was obvious I was out of place. They all shone with the pride of their achievements and then there was me, timid and shy in the background. They hung up all of their prized medals and trophies and awards on the staircase wall like it were a gallery.
I didn't have one thing hung up on that wall.

Despite my countless certificates and prize-winning drawings, and paintings, and animations, it wasn't good enough for them. They wanted me to win medals they actually cared about, like science or soccer.

That was the problem with them.

If they weren't interested, they didn't give a damn.

And if it weren't enough, not having a single medal hanging on the achievement wall; they were so comparing. They compared me nearly every night when I didn't want to eat a certain type of food because I didn't like it, or when they saw my appearance and scolded me on it.
Well, your sister is so beautiful, and she eats salad.
Well, your brother is so out-going, and he loves school.
Well, you should be more like your class-mates; they're going places in the world, and you? You'd be lucky to afford a jacket with that art thing of yours.

They'd spent their entire lives ruining my self-esteem to the point where all those certificates and prize-winning drawings, and paintings, and animations didn't matter to me anymore. I felt empty.
And at the tender age of eleven, I couldn't help but start to believe them.

Who would want someone like me?

I continue to sketch my previous people as curiosity starts to gain my attention incredibly quickly. So I let my eyes shift up and glance at him quickly enough so it wouldn't look creepy.

I feel my eyes widen to the point where I must look ridiculously idiotic.

He is so beautiful.

His hair is a scruffy blonde, and his eyes are clear, bright blue, and the longer I stare the more handsome he gets. He holds a notebook in his hand, and a pen tucked away behind his ear. I watch with curiosity as he flips through his notebook, most of the pages filled with words. My hand starts to move unconsciously and I start to draw.
His eyes dance with concentration and he bites his lip. His eyelashes are long and golden, and I'm amazed by the fact they don't get tangled when he blinks.
His eyes shift up and his gaze lands on me. My eyes widen in surprise and he gives me an amused lopsided grin and an embarrassing blush shows up on my cheeks. My ears feel hot and I bite my lip, shifting my gaze down towards my sketchbook, only to meet his eyes once again on the page. I hear a chuckle, and my blush deepens.

For the next ten minutes we play this game where we sneak glances at each other without trying to be caught. So far, he seems to be winning, because it doesn't seem like he's playing the game. His eyes are trained on his notebook, his pen writing words on the pages with speed and finesse.
I sigh in resignation and turn to sketch. I try to sketch anything but the subway guy. But it's nearly impossible. I don't think he understands that's he's got me reeled in; hook, line and sinker.
Suddenly, I can feel a gaze that burns right through me. My heart-beat rockets and I'm too scared to look up. But in a moment of courage, I find it deep within me to look.

And I am not disappointed.

His eyes are trained on me and notebook flipped to a half-empty page. His eyes widen in surprise, a blush starts on his cheeks. We hold each other's stares for a few moments, until I realize I should do something as to not look like an idiot. So I smile at him, and his eyes light up. He smiles back and as I start to shift my gaze back to my lap, I hear a quiet voice.
"Hi."

My eyes widen and my head whips back to the subway guy, wondering if it truly was him, or just my imagination playing tricks on me. But his gaze is on me, a small smile is on his lips and I stare at him for a moment in shock. A few moments pass until I realize I'm openly gaping at him.
"H-hi."
He smiles warmly at me, and his mouth opens again.
"What's your name?" his voice is deep, and masculine.
"Katniss." My voice is raspy from lack of speech, but I manage to croak out my name. The subway guy smiles again, and I can't help but notice that he smiles a little too excessively.
"That's a pretty name," he mumbles. His questioning blue eyes search my gaze, silently asking me to carry the conversation.
"Thank you," I say quietly, blushing. My voice shakes, not used to talking this much. He chuckles at my disheveled appearance. His eyebrows rise, and his voice reaches my ears once again.
"Aren't you gonna ask me my name?" He asks cheekily. I panic at the sudden question, but go along with his plan.
"What's your name?" I ask quietly, blushing a little further. The subway guy grins a boyish smile, and answers me in his handsome voice.
"Peeta." He says.

Peeta. So the subway guy has a name now.
"What's your favorite colour?" he asks with a smile.

I answer all of his questions truthfully. He tells me that his favorite book is set in a dystopian future; where kids are lined up to be killed, and only one out of twenty-four are left, and that he has two older brothers, and that his favorite colour is orange, and that he always double knots his shoelaces, and that he loves tea.
And I tell him that my favorite book is a cancer story; where the girl's first love succumbs to harsh reality of sickness, and that I'm a pathetic middle child, and that my favorite colour is green, and that my parents never listen, and that I love hot chocolate, and that there are things about myself that I take so sensitively.

He moves closer, settling into the seat next to mine.

"I don't think my demons will let go of me. They've got a grasp on me that's much too tight." I say. Peeta just smiles and answers me.
"That's the thing about growth; it can change everything you thought you knew about yourself. And if something so horrible can hold on to you so tightly, what makes you think something won't come along and help you destroy them? You can fight them until all that's left is a white canvas." He smiles and brushes away a lock of hair that covered my face. But something bugged me. A blank canvas was the more correct term in my mind. Sure the canvas was white, but it felt empty, as if it were calling and asking you to do something with the blank space it's given you.

But he was a writer, and everything a writer said had meaning.

"Why don't you just say blank?" I ask. "Doesn't it mean the same thing?" Peeta simply shakes his head, and smiles softly.
"Because blank means empty, and void. Growth can't erase your mistakes until all that's left is an empty page. An eraser can't erase everything on a page, can it?" he asks me, holding my sketchbook in his hands, staring at the many early sketches that I'd tried to erase. "White is the purest form of colour. And when you're at your purest form, you can change yourself into something that can remember your past and say 'I survived that'." He said, staring into my eyes as if he were trying to engrave his words into my brain. I stared back doubtingly.
After eighteen years of utter hell, unfortunately it was going to take a little more than a heart-felt speech to convince me.

But then he did something that made me my change my mind about myself, for one second.

He kissed me.

And then he told me that I was what he wanted. Not my sister, or my brother, me. And we spent the rest of our subway car ride talking and smiling.

And after all of it happened, I went home, his number in my pocket and the feeling of his lips still on mine, and I looked in the mirror.

I still saw an anti-social girl with achievements not worth her family's time. But I saw a girl with a name, a face; a girl with achievements worth someone's time.

And in the end, it didn't matter what my family thought of me; I cared a little less every day I saw Peeta again. And to this day we are still together, because he was my growth; my signal that I was a person, not a disappointment. He changed me into a white canvas that eventually got painted with vibrant colours and bright new features that were worth showing off.
And no, my past is not utterly erased, but I have changed into someone who is stronger than her childhood, and is proud to say that she survived it.
And I can't help but smile when I think back to the subway ride that started it all. That train has long gone out of order, but the picture is still fresh in my mind, and I am ready to paint it on a white canvas, and I am ready to make it grow.