I'm Just Here

Your muse is a gracefully tall, white-haired witch with delicate hands, helping shape the future of four bright girls. Artistically speaking his aesthetics are unmatched with a duality of expressions so rich you wouldn’t be able to lay your pen to rest.

Precisely why you find yourself sitting in the garden on lush green grass between blooming flowers and growing herbs planted by your Qifrey. Your sketchbook neatly placed on your folded legs, pen in your hand, eyes on the window. The window of the atelier. The one Qifrey stands in front of cooking with his apprentices, smiling and laughing – looking over to you every so often. The way his smile dances on his face is nothing short of breathtaking.

You sigh, content and blissfully aware of how lucky you are. You physically can’t stop yourself from drawing him over and over. You must have close to a hundred different motifs of him tucked neatly in your sketchbook.

You might be a witch, but you’ve always been far more interested in drawing anything else but circles and spells. Your teachers said you wasted your talent, but you still don’t mind. You are unapologetically you, an artist.

You are gleefully shading your newest portrait of your favorite witch when you notice you have run out of ink. Putting down your sketchbook and laying down your pen you make your way upstairs to gather more supplies. Perhaps you could sneak out a delicious treat on your way out without being scolded, Qifrey seemed awfully busy.

As you trot back into the garden you notice Qifrey sitting in your spot, holding your sketchbook, looking through your works of him. “The wind scattered them I just put them back together.” He might be your boyfriend, but this is borderline obsessive – truthfully, you are utterly enamored but secretly, as to not overwhelm him with your feelings.

“I can explain. I swear-“ Your frantic efforts to offer explanations fall on deaf ears. “Are these all of me?” Qifrey question doesn’t let an emotion shine through. The embarrassment creeps onto your cheeks as you nod with hesitation clear in your action. With eyes shut close you brace yourself for the inevitable fate of being shamed.

“I don’t know what to say.” You hold your breath, shaking uncontrollably. “These are simply wonderful.” You open your eyes, a dumbfounded look on your face. You visited the possibility of him discovering or, in rare occurrences, you presenting him your works – never with a positive outcome. You thought of yourself as overbearing, obsessive even. Someone who loves too much, overflowing like dipping a pen in a bottle of ink filled too the brim and ruining the art.

“You aren’t angry?” You break your own silence with a question in a timid voice. Qifreys face reveals surprise. “Why would I?” You blink once, then twice and by the third time you stumble over your own words. “Qifrey. These are all you. I haven’t drawn anything else lately. All you. Don’t you realize how obsessive this is? You don’t have to be nice to me just beca-“ You suddenly get interrupted. “Why wouldn’t you be obsessed with me? I thought we loved each other?” Now it’s you with the bewildered look on your face.

“We do.” You state blatantly not finding more words in your overworked brain just yet. “Good.” A chuckle escapes him, the one left by his vocal cords when he is clearly amused. You aren’t amused. You are relieved and glad and mortified and confused – a terrible combination for your heart. Qifrey pats the spot next to him. “May we look through them together?” Your cheeks can’t possibly find a darker shade of red.

You flipped through the entirety of your sketchbook reliving memories long passed and showered with praise that could help healing your inner anxious child.

You had been terrified with the thought of him accidentally discovering your art of him and the very moment it slipped into reality you had been delighted with Qifreys reaction. He doesn’t judge, he doesn’t question, he only observes in awe.

For the majority of your existence, you were expected to solely draw spells, hiding your works in fear of having them destroyed and your utensils confiscated – again. You heard many words spoken in your presence that shattered what little self-worth was left.

Untalented. Unskilled. Underserving. Ungrateful.

What was left was a witch scared to hold a pen.

From the very minute you found your Qifrey everything changed. He encouraged you to pick up a pen again, drawing anything but spells and you did. Suddenly you found yourself drawing him and him alone. It may be obsessive but with him being the sole reason you felt inspired and brave enough again, it only made sense.

“Would you let me hold your hand?” Deep in thought you find yourself caught off guard but reach out your main hand anyways. Qifrey examines it by lifting both of your hands towards the sun. “These hands are remarkably talented. Did you know? I love the way you portrait feelings on paper. Looking at your drawings of me I instantly remember the emotion I felt in that particular moment and tiny details I’ve already forgotten.”

You have no words to offer in return. You aren’t ashamed or embarrassed anymore. You let his words linger in your mind until the faintest of smile makes itself known on your lips.

He brings your hands down and starts caressing each finger, tracing from root to fingertip in the process. His gentle motions elicit a tremble jolting through your body. “The callous on your index finger creates a roughness I often enjoy whenever we hold hands. It shows years of dedication, of refining your skills.”

Qifreys words offer so much kindness, filling your heart in all the right places. You thought you already adored him too wholeheartedly, leaving no room to breathe – but alas you find your heart swell with love progressively.

He kisses the inside of your palm, his lips lingering. “I’ve often asked the stars how I could be deserving of you.” You feel the smile on his lips as he whispers against your skin. His face remains in your hand for a few more moments while you are desperately trying to respond to him.

Moment after moment passes, your mind attempting to comprehend his words of utter devotion. The plethora of emotions rushing through you is staggering. Hearing his praises laced with encouragement and worship leaves you at loss. Qifrey doesn’t mind.

“I’m forever in the heavens debts, infinitely grateful for your love.” You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him some more. You may have no capacity to form a cohesive thought into a spoken statement, but you allow your lips to speak for you.

“May I make a request?” You nod; you would gladly grant him anything.