Main Characters in the Story:

*Kim So Hyun as "Athena" Myung-hee Park

*Jake T. Austin as Michael De Soto

Chapter XII: Now, We Wait.

~o~

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~o~

I breathe in your arms, we kiss in your arms. When I hear your voice, it feels like I'm dreaming. I can tell from your eyes, I can tell about your love. You are my heaven. You're my only one way. Only for you I am thankful that I am next to you. You're the only one babe. You taught me love in this harsh world I am happy with you alone. Heaven, my only person, yes the person who will protect me. Any sadness, any pain if only I'm with you. I'm not jealous of anyone else hold my two trembling hands. Because the reason I live is you. You're my only one way. Only for you I am thankful that I am next to you. You're the only one babe. You taught me love in this harsh world I am happy with you alone.

Heaven Heaven Heaven Heaven Heaven x2

If we're together we will never cry never never cry

Heaven Heaven Heaven Heaven Heaven x2

Forever, together never gonna be alone. Oh, so alone

As the lyrics goes on for Ailee's Heaven comes to an end, I remain and perfectly still. The second it's over, I stop the recording and take off my earphones, setting them down on the table next to the computer. I take a deep breath and sit back in my chair as I come back down from the emotion and focus of the song.

"Wow."

I look up right away. I blush when I see Michael sitting at the end of the table. "I forgot you were here." I say, my voice a bit raspy.

"It's no problem. You were pretty into it. And it sounded really, really good."

I smile at him. "Thank you." I move the laptop cursor over the options button and save the audio file. I'll take care of it later, make some improvements or something.

"When did you learn how to work this stuff? I look at it, I'm confused as hell." He laughs.

I shrug. "About half an hour before I set it up. Seemed pretty simple to me."

"Yeah. For a genius, it should be like a second- grade math."

I roll my eyes. I stand up and head for the refrigerator. I open it up and take out the large gallon of water. "You want some?" I ask Michael.

"Uh, no thanks. I'm good."

"Alright." I take out a plastic cup from the cabinet in front of my face and pour the water until it nearly overflows. I close the gallon and put it back in the fridge. "I haven't sung like that in a long time. I guess I should have warmed up first."

"Does your voice mess up if you don't warm up?"

I take a huge gulp of water, closing my eyes as it soothes my slightly-sore throat. I swallow it down and nod. "It can. Especially since I'm not used to singing like that."

"Hm. Now I know."

The kitchen becomes silent, the low humming of the computer playing quietly. Just before things could get awkward, my phone buzzes loudly, and the screen lights up. I pick it up from the table and read it. It's a reminder. "Oh man. I have to do laundry right now. Jeez." I lock it and put it in my back pocket. "Can you come downstairs with me? Your benefit will be cooler air since there's air-conditioning down there."

"Sure."

I finish my water and place it in the sink. I head to the door to the basement, open it up, and hurry down the steps, Michael following behind me.

"Wow." He says. "It's pretty cold down here. And everything is… pretty fancy, if you ask me."

The basement is all white: white carpeting, white couches, and white tables. The TV is the only thing colored down down here, which is black. I can see my parents aren't ones for happier hues. It's all so… boring. I hate it. Sometimes, when I'm down here trying to relax, I feel like taking a bunch of paint cans, a few paint brushes, and splattering paint all over the walls. Maybe then it would have some life into it.

"Do your parents not like, you know, a little bit of-"

"Color?" I say, finishing his sentence. "I was just thinking the same thing. I don't know why they did it in one color. It makes them seem so much more boring than they are. But, I haven't really been here. What reason have I to judge?" I go all the way to the back of the basement, approaching a set of white doors (shocker). I open them up. "Alright. Let's do this."

"Uh, can I make a suggestion?" Michael says.

"What?" I say, looking back at him.

"Maybe you should bring the clothes down first."

I look around me. I didn't even bother to get the baskets. I drop my head and let it hang there. I let out a heavy, annoyed sigh. "Damn it." I move around him and head back up the stairs, destination: my goddamn room.

~o~

"And… that's the last of it," I say as I drop the last of the dark clothing into the washing machine. "Now, we wait."

"Can I draw you?" Michael suddenly asks.

I raise an eyebrow. Geuga naleul kkeul-eo deul-il su issneunji mul-eo boass ni? {Did he just ask if he could draw me?} "Um… why?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. You have a beautiful face, and I want to see if I have any chance of capturing your features properly. I look at it, and I feel like no drawing would every match it the way it should."

I think about his request, the first of its kind to ever exist in my life. "Did you just say my face is complicated?"

The light in his eyes instantly vanish of the realization of what he said. "What? No! That's not what I meant. I just, I like a challenge, and… no! Challenge is not a good word. I… it's… I wanted to…" He sighs in defeat. "I'm just going to go sit in a corner now. My apologies."

When he turns to walk away, I cover my mouth with my hands to hold back my laughter. He was flustered and panicky, and it was really adorable. I cough a few times to hide my laughter. "There's a sketch pad in the coffee table over there." I point it towards the sitting area. "My art pencils should be underneath it."

He looks at me and smiles nervously, his cheeks are light red. He walks to the coffee table, goes into the drawer, and takes out the supplies. "You could just do whatever you want. I like more natural positions."

I nod. I move to the coffee table and open the same drawer. I take out a notebook and check to see if my pen is still in the spiral. I shut the drawer and plop down on the couch behind me. I bring my legs up next to me tucking my feet underneath me.

Michael sits down on the sofa chair to the left of me. He takes out one of the lighter pencils and opens the sketch pad to a blank page.

I try to ignore him as much as possible and begin writing on a blank page:

I miss you, Tom. I miss you so much, too much. I feel like I am here alone. Marilyn's here, I know, but there are things that I talk to you about how I can't talk about her. I have no one. My parents will never get me, I have ONE friend—well, two now. I will talk about the second one later. Ms. Hadsell moved to another school in Boston. And I don't think I will ever see the people I met while I was on the streets again… maybe I should reconnect with Eric. It's been too long since we talked. He was my best friend first. But… I need you here. I need you. You're the only one I really have in this world.

I pause my writing and look up at Michael.

He's scribbling away at the paper, his eyes fixed on his work. There's a focus in them, a sincere dedication to what he's doing. He's so lost in it, I wonder how well this will turn out. Or how terrible. I don't know why he thought I was beautiful. That's clearly a lie. I mean, look at me, I'm so—tsh. Damn it.

I start a new paragraph and continue writing:

I have been working on my insecurity, you know. But I don't think it's going so well. I was judging the hell out of myself. Again, I can't help it. I don't see what you or anyone else claim to see me as a beautiful person. I'm sorry. It still hurts to see myself in the mirror, to see all the imperfections that will always be there. I remember what you said, though. "The more you look for them, the worse you'll get with judging yourself." I drew a picture for it. I will probably send it for you later. But if I send it, don't try to convince me to go to a therapist. You have been doing that quite a bit lately, and I would like it if you would just stop. I already told you my thoughts on therapists and psychiatrists and all that crap. I'm not changing my mind.

I look up again. He's changed pencils now. It's a darker shade; he's probably outlining it now or something. I don't know how he works it. I love the way his jaw flexes as he moves to draw from different angles, how his hands glide across the paper like nothing. There's a light in his eyes, a determined light. A creative light. I'm familiar with it. It's not a light you can literally see. It's a light that even in the darkest rooms, comes out when you're doing something you love. And it's clear to see that he loves drawing.

"If you keep staring at me, I'm drawing you like that."

I work to keep from blushing. I try to refocus on my writing, but I need to sneak a look one last time. Without moving my head, I look up at him through my hair bangs and eyelashes, and there's half a grin on his face. I smile a little bit and continue writing:

I should get to telling you about the new friend I have met. His name is Michael. I don't know his last name, which is kind of annoying. It feels weird to me if I don't know my friends' last names. Anyway, he's really cool. He likes art, music, literature, and hates school. I didn't think we would have so much in common. Go figure. I will probably introduce you to him another day. He's drawing me right now. Haha. He asked me if he could draw me. Apparently he finds drawing my face a challenge. After he explained, I just took it as a compliment. So, yeah. I'm just sitting here writing while he draws me. He better make me prettier than I am. There's nothing wrong with a little lie in a picture. I mean really, who knew for sure Mona Lisa didn't have any eyebrows? That could have been just been edited or something.

I… don't know else to talk about. Um… well. How's the filming going on? Have you gotten through any scenes? You are going to send me some footage, right? ()/ I'm just kidding. Are you working with anyone new? Aren't you doing a movie with Tilda Swinton? Only Lovers Left Alive, right? I want to hear how that's going. I wish I were over there with you. I know, I know. I keep saying that. But I won't be saying it for long, since I'm going to see you this summer. I will never be able to thank you enough for that. I swear, you don't know how happy and excited I am. I have never wanted summer to come so badly.

I have so much to show you. I have new stories and a lot more drawings, and a lot more drawings, and I made my first recording today. Can you listen to it? I want somebody's feedback, and you're the only one I trust to be honest with me.

"Almost done." Michael says.

"Okay."

I hate being by myself, Tom. It's so boring. I miss having you here, spending time with you, living with you for those last days you were in Stamford. Just… just tell me I will be okay. Tell me we will see each other sooner than I think. Tell me one day I will be able to be with you again. God, this is turning really cliché. I was going to e-mail this to you, but I think I will keep it for myself. It's getting too mushy. I got my feelings out. Right? Haha. I'm literally talking to nothing now. What would you say at this time? Something inspirational, probably. "As long as you are getting your feelings out instead of keeping them locked up, I'm glad you're pretending I'm listening at the moment." Okay, that's probably not what you would say. But… yeah, I'm such a silly girl.

"Done."

I stop writing and look up at Michael; he's holding the picture for me to see.

I'm instantly in love with the picture; it's not what he drew, but how he drew it. The sketches, the precision, the shading. It looks like it took him an hour to draw, maybe two when I see a majority of my facial details were taken into account (usually a sketch would not include so much effort). "Uwa… {Wow…}" I finally say, the only compliment I can come up with at the moment. I move to the other end of the coach and reach for the drawing.

He hands it to me, a smile on his face. "I guess you like it."

"Oh yes." I look closely to find a flaw in his drawing, a mistake, something to prove this drawing isn't as perfect as I think. He even got my hand right, as well as the notebook and pencil. "Have I been writing for that long? It seemed like five minutes to me."

"More like half an hour. You went through a few pages in your notebook. You didn't notice that?"

I look at my notebook and grab it. I flip through previous pages, going through about four before I finally reach the beginning of the entry. "Uwa. {Whoa.} No, I guess I didn't notice." I toss it to the side and look at the picture again. It looks exactly like me, but… prettier. My eyes immediately move to my cheeks. I feel my own self-consciously. Jeongmal geuge yalb-eungayo? {Am I really that thin?} Shaking off the thought, I hand the notebook back to him. "This is awesome. Thanks."

"No problem. It was fun drawing you. You got so lost in your own work. It is a perfect image."

Perfect. Hm. Strong words you are using, Micheal?" I flinch at the surprising sound of the washing machine. A loud buzzing noise plays for a few long seconds, then the room goes completely silent. I sigh and stand up. "Time for another load." I say, slowly moving to the washing machine.

In my head—why they are there that beats the hell out of me—are his eyes the way they looked while he worked. They were… mesmerizing? Is that a good word for it? There was passion in his movements, passion for drawing. At least, I hope it was for drawing. Unless for… ani-yo. Ani-yo. {no. No.} It was for drawing. Just. Drawing.