Warning: Depression, suggestion of self-harm

Clary stared at the blank paper. She picked up a pencil. She set it back down. How was she supposed to draw? She had absolutely no inspiration, and hardly any motivation. And she hadn't drawn in months. Which was actually the reason she was trying to draw. To give herself a "creative emotional outlet." Not that she was entirely sure what that meant, but the least she could do was try, since they were paying for therapy.

Faces. She used to draw faces a lot. She wondered if she could draw Simon. That might be nice. A circle. That was how to start. A line down the center, then a jaw, and ears. There. Maybe this would work. But… the proportions were off. What were the right proportions? She couldn't remember. And it looked bland. Numb, maybe. She felt pain in her arm. She looked down to find she'd dug her nails into the skin there. She released her grip, leaving little red indents behind. At least she wasn't bleeding.

"Watcha doing?" Jace asked.

She looked up, tried to smile for him, even the tiniest bit. It wasn't a smile, though, and he saw through her attempt in a heartbeat.

"Oh, baby," he said, and sat down next to her. He hugged her and wiped away a tear she hadn't even felt fall.

"I'm trying to draw."

"Yeah? That's good."

"I don't- I don't think I can."

"Okay… that's okay." He moved the sketchbook from her lap, and massaged her shoulders. "You don't have to perfect. No one said this would be easy." She sighed and leaned into him. It was so good he was there. She was so lucky to have him. He was stuck with her. No, wait. That was wrong. She wasn't supposed to "entertain negative thoughts." She was so lucky to have him, and he loved her. She hoped. Because really, she was a mess. Who would want her as a girlfriend? Damnit. She really had to stop doing that.

Jace moved his legs onto the bed and laid down. He was hugging her still, so she had little choice but to follow. They laid on the covers, his body curled around hers. She fell asleep, safe and warm.

…

She didn't wake up until nearly eleven the next morning. After so many hours of sleeping, she had to drag herself out of bed. At least she managed to do that. And shower. She did that, too. But she didn't wash her face, or put in mascara, or any of the other things she used to do.

When she came downstairs, her hair was still dripping water, and she felt like she was moving sluggishly, like time had slowed down.

"Good morning," Jace greeted her. How did he always sound so happy?

She mumbled a response, filled a glass with water, and took her pill.

"Want a muffin?" He nudged forward a brown paper bag. "I couldn't help but stop at the bakery this morning. It smelled so good. And they had pumpkin muffins- those are your favorite, right?"

"Yes. Thank you," she said, trying to force happiness into her voice. She took it out of the bag and broke off a piece.

"And I was thinking, maybe you should get new art stuff. I dunno, just start new, or something. Don't famous artists have different periods in their art? Like, everyone always talks about Picasso's Green Period."

"It's Blue Period. And yeah." Clary nibbled at the muffin.

"Exactly."

The muffin was crumbly. It'd probably be better warm. It tasted very cinnamon-y. She liked cinnamon. Just maybe not that much. She ate another bit of it. Jace had gotten it for her. As a nice surprise. Which it was. But maybe she looked like she wasn't enjoying it. She picked it up and bit off a mouthful. Now her mouth was dry, and there were crumbs on her face.

"Coffee?" Jace asked, holding out a mug. She nodded.

…

"Stay here?" she requested, as they walked through automatic doors and into the bright lights of a craft store.

"Sure," he said, glancing around at the scarecrows and metal turkeys. Thanksgiving had exploded in the front of the store. A few lonely fake crows sat in a clearance display.

Clary walked down the aisles, stopping when she found the one lined with sketchbooks. She opened one, and then closed it. And then stepped back and stared. There was so much paper. 100% recycled, tinted gray, tinted tan, textured, smooth. Spiral-bound, hand-sewn, black leather covers and yellow cardstock flaps. And there was watercolor paper. She picked it up. It was heavy and sturdy, and she ran her hand along the uneven surface.

When she returned to Jace, she had found watercolors, brushes, paper, and a palette.

"Watercolor?" he said.

"Yeah. I don't think I've used them for years."

"I've never seen you. Is this all you want?"

Clary nodded.

"Good. Cause I'm pretty sure that stuffed turkey is giving me the evil eye."

"Are you afraid of all birds now?" She started for the register.

"No. And ducks aren't trustworthy," Jace said, following her. She rolled her eyes.

…

Clary liked the way the paints exploded into each other, spreading and bleeding across the page. She knew a thousand YouTube tutorials would tell her otherwise, but it was spontaneous and exciting and forced her to create without knowing the end product. And it felt good to be creating again. It felt relieving and freeing and relaxing. She didn't know how she'd kept so much emotion hidden for so long, buried under the numbness of depression.

She finished painting hours later. She gathered up her things, washed out the brushes, cleaned the palette. Perhaps she still had spray varnish she could use on the painting. She went back to the bedroom, looking through first her drawers, then the shared ones. The nightstand drawer was, admittedly, a bit of a junk drawer, and she opened it not expecting anything. She was right; it lacked varnish. Instead, she found a folded-up piece of paper, covered in Jace's handwriting.

She hadn't meant to read it. Really, she hadn't. She was going to put it back. But then she saw just a few words, unbreakable. And so he-

And of course she wanted to know about the rest of it.

…

She heard Jace open the door. His footsteps through the kitchen.

"Wow, this looks great," he said, mostly to himself, about the painting she'd left there. "Clary, where are you?"

He stopped when he saw her. On the bed, holding the paper, with the nightstand drawer left open.

"You- you want to marry me?" she said.

"I- yes," he said. He walked over to her.

"Can you read it?" She handed him the paper. "To make it real?"

"When the boy was much older, after he had left his father, he met a girl. It was an accident. He was not meant to be seen, she was not meant to see. But they did. And the boy felt himself falling in love with her. But he remembered his lesson. To love is to destroy, and to be loved is to be the one destroyed. He tried not to fall in love. The universe threw reasons straight into his hands, and he held onto them tight and believed them as much as he could. He took his love and locked it away and taught himself a new lesson: to be loved is to be destroyed. Because he was destroyed by his love, and the fact that it would not leave, and that these reasons felt so real."

"Until they didn't. Until the universe unwound its story, and he could love her freely, without harming himself. But still, he remembered: to love is to destroy. And so he did not give her all his love, he shattered himself like glass and showed her pieces of him, one at a time. And she picked them up and tried to solve them like a puzzle that never quite fit.

"Finally, after so much time, he looked at her, and he saw how strong she was. She was strong and sturdy even though sometimes no one could see it. So he taught himself to. He looked for it in her words and her actions, he found it in her voice and drawings. She was unbreakable. And so he loved her. But maybe it is not enough to be unbreakable. Maybe sometimes, you need to break and fall in love. And maybe breaking isn't quite so bad. Because you break and give yourself to someone, and that is love.

"Thank you, Clary. For teaching me how to break, and how to love. I love you. And I will always love you. Will you marry me?"

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it (I know I enjoyed writing it). Hoping to write more TMI stuff soon, but in the meantime... don't forget to review!

-rosebud