ISSUE #3 - TILT MAGAZINE

A special thanks to our principal Mr. Au, our teacher supervisor Ms. Farrell, the Tilt team and all of our RCI student contributors!

Editor: Evva Sofa Pereira Liapis

Graphic Design: Evva Sofa Pereira Liapis, Erin Krupa, Emelie Gordon, Abene Glasgow, Wanya Farheen, Wendy

Feng

Tilt Team: Claire Bak, Kate Fulsom, Sydney Welt

Teacher Supervisor: Ms. Farrell

All magazine contributions are by RCI Students

Editor’s Note

Editor’s Note

It’s that time of year again! Tilt is back! Tilt is a new, fresh perspective for the Riverdale Family. This is an arts and lit magazine. That means that the pieces that are in here range from poetry and short stories to visual arts and photography. All of the pieces are made by our very own students.

There is a quote “All great art and literature is propaganda.” Art and writing are ways that we convey our thoughts and opinions to the world. As you read through our magazine (which we are quite proud of) we hope that you take care not to judge the pieces. Please be kind.

We also hope that you read through the whole magazine, don’t breeze through with no care. Read each and every word, really get enveloped in the pieces. Both the Tilt team and the contributors took a lot of time and care to create this magazine. We can’t wait for you to see and enjoy the work we’ve all put together for you.

Thank you so much for reading our magazine!

Editor

and the rest of the TILT team

Kindred Spirits

Kindred Spirits Anonymous

I wish she knew how special she is. Not was, but is. Not just to me, but to everyone who knows her. Not just because she’s gotten so good at putting on a show, but the real her.

I want to sink my teeth into everything, everyone, and everytime that she’s been hurt. I want to claw with bloody and shredded nails at the pressures that put her down and force her to conform.

I want to pull the pain from her chest like a spool of dark blue yarn that we can unknot together. I want to listen to her stories so she understands that somebody can see all of her and is appreciative that she’s still here.

She is me, I am her. She is my daughter, my mother, my younger sister. She is my childhood best friend. She is my kindergarten teacher. She is my neighbour’s grandmother who calls me by the name of her sister who passed before I was born. I see myself in her just as I see her in me, like coming home and staring at the most comforting refection. The best thing you can be is honest and vulnerable and there’s nobody else that I’d rather share those things with.

If you try to tell her, she’ll never believe you. I love the way her eyes crinkle at the edges when she laughs. I love the way she gets excited over small miracles.

I love the way she’s so resilient and I hate that she’s had to be. I wish she knew how special she is and that she’s allowed to be loved.

Chloe Emelie Gordon

35mm Film

4x6 in

Chloe

Journals are the Windows to the Soul Journals are the Windows to the Soul

by Anonymous

The best part of my journal are the beautiful silver clasps that hold my manuscript of pain together. When I’m done writing and snap them shut, I know that my unruly emotions have found a new home instead of fghting for attention in my exhausted body. I stare at the open book in my lap. Lit by the dim rays from my bedside lamp, I sit there stroking the edges of the worn paper that has seen me through so much.

I always had an aversion to the idea of journaling as a mental health tool. I credit this partly to a lack of motivation to get out of bed on most days. I also think -- and this is infnitely more concerning to me -- that we don’t always want to get better.

I had grown so used to feeling like an empty pit that I was uncomfortable exploring outside the hole I had dug myself into. Even upon the request of my middle school social worker, it really never seemed to stick as a regular habit.

Depression has a fckle way of uprooting any progress you think you’re making. It comes into your home unannounced to rip all your artwork of the walls and smash your plates. It leaves your tap running with the bathroom door locked.

Whenever I can’t sleep, I leaf through my old entries and refect on how things have changed since I wrote them.

The page I had open on my lap was diferent from most of the others, which are comprised of long, block paragraphs in a frenzied scribble. This entry was just two careful lines of script that kept repeating in my head until I put them down for safekeeping on the thin black lines: “I don't know if I

Essentially harkening back to one of the core debates in psychology -- nature versus nurture, and which one ultimately has the most efect on our personality and behaviours. I often waver between the two sides, especially late at night when my eyes sting with tears and I think of what my life might look like if certain events hadn’t transpired.

I know that my experiences have shaped who I am but that doesn’t necessarily mean that they have to defne me. I know this and yet it’s still a battle each day to remind myself. I feel like a shadow of the person I used to be and what I could’ve become; all hazy, undefned lines and wasted opportunity.

was born horrible, or if you made me this way.”

I know that’s what my mother sees when she looks at me. Even though she would never dare voice it, I can feel her aura of disappointment radiating outwards.

It’s what I see when I look at myself most days, frst thing in the morning before the rest of my body comes online and I gather strength to actively push against these intrusions.

I know all the negative things I internalize about myself are only half-truths and yet I still carry their weight around with me. Some days I think there’s more truth to them than lies. When I climb out of that spiral, I am able to remind myself that even if they are true statements, there are so many other things that I am (and have been, and will be).

I don’t have to wonder what my father sees when he looks at me, for he has voiced it to my face my whole life. He has told me that my depressive episodes make life so unbearably difcult for those around me. He has told me that if I don’t stop mumbling he’ll put his hands around my neck and squeeze until I would be permanently rendered to a whisper.

He has also told me he loves me more than anything in the world.

At seven years old, the only alliterative adjective I could think of to display with my name for school year ice-breakers was “selfish”. Selfsh, scared, sad.

I’ve always found it unsettlingly easy to lose myself in the perceptions of those who spend more time telling others what to be, rather than to see who they are.

My journal has helped me sort through these things that are a part of me, albeit some of the uglier ones. The parts of myself that I am fondest of haven’t been born out of hate. They are inspired by people I love and admire.

So maybe, while I wade my way through the river of life, I’ll keep being inspired by my emotions to create art. Just like Audre Lorde, Marina Abramović, Mitski Miyawaki, Jenny Slate, and so many other wonderfully resilient visionaries that have come before me.

Slowly, I will learn to love and admire myself too.

Goo Goo Ga Ga

Goo Goo Ga Ga

Digital Photography

Cooper Bugatto

Bri'ish

Bri'ish

Digital Photography

Cooper Bugatto

Country Music is Bad

Country Music is Bad

Digital Photography

Cooper Bugatto

Long Egg

Long Egg

Joanne Li

Something round and slightly unusual.

I was presented with an egg by my father.

I wrapped my hands around it, excited, ecstatic. An egg. An egg that was a little weird. I've seen, held, and smelled eggs before, but this one was diferent.

Allowing the egg to rest in the palms of my hands, I brushed my thumbs against the shell and felt its silky smooth texture. It was certainly fresh, and came with more eggs just like the one I was holding now. It wasn't alone, of course, because who sells a singular egg? Even though it wasn't alone, I only held this one. I couldn't hold any more than this, even if I wanted to.

Now that I think about it, this egg is pretty long. Usually eggs aren't this long. Are there two yolks inside? I held the egg up to my ear as if it were a conch. "Does the egg have two yolks inside?" I said aloud, expecting a response from my father who was watching me watch this egg. "Open it," He responded, as if it were a command. Well, technically, it is a command. But I didn't want to hurt the egg just yet. I didn't really have a use for it, but it was here.

While I was loving this egg, my dad had presented me with a generic egg. This is a generic egg, because it's a regular shape. Nothing like the long egg. My egg was on the table now.

My dad put the generic egg next to the long egg, and we observed the size diferences. Height.

Width.

Uniqueness.

These are two eggs, but clearly, one is bigger than the other. No, one is better than the other.

But why, I wonder, was it so good? It's just a product, isn't it?

In fact, long eggs were not that uncommon anymore. In Canada, you could buy a whole carton of double yolk eggs. Those were not that long, but they were large in size, compared to the regular egg.

I looked at both eggs on the table. I had just fnished taking photographs of them. One was longer and bigger and the other one was just smaller and shorter.

It's not fair.

Weren't double yolks supposed to be uncommon? Weren't long eggs supposed to be uncommon? I was beginning to think I had made such a big deal out of it.

Eventually, I had brought both eggs to the fridge, my heart cracked and shattered as much as an egg could crack and shatter. Nothing unique about these eggs at all. The fridge was open, and so I stared.

Wow. That's a lot of eggs.

So many eggs, in one spot, in one compartment, each one piled on top of each other forming what seemed like a ball pit.

Small eggs, and long eggs. I was once again fascinated by how many eggs there were. I slipped the small egg in between two smooth eggs that seemingly ofered a spot.

And then, there was one more. The long egg.

I had loved this egg so much that I didn't realise it wasn't as unique as I thought it was. I had felt bad too, because I had infated its true value too much. Did I really do that, or was I just not aware? Not aware that these eggs were no longer uncommon? Not aware that it was just a product created by people? Not aware that it wasn't worth the attention?

I suppose it didn't really matter. It's just an egg, isn't it?

I wiped away my imaginary tears, and left the egg in with the rest.

One more glance, and it was in the fridge. Just a bunch of eggs.

Pets

Erin Khoo

Pencil Crayon on Paper 8x10”

A Love So Deep

A Love So Deep

Wanya Farheen

Graphite on Paper

What is a Home if not the First Thing you learn to Run From What is a Home if not the First Thing you learn to Run From

by Anonymous

Run, run, Rebel Girl

Glowing like a pearl in the dim moonlight the frst drops of rain mixing with the tears running down your cheeks Run, run, running down the street down your face

Down to your very bones

Has anybody ever seen you like this? Do you want them to?

Will you let them?

You will let them. One day.

Trusting is hard and not trusting is lonely

Run, run, Rebel Girl

Gazing up at the fickering streetlight coltish legs prickling in the cool air, stretched out into the cracked road Run, run, running from all the things you want to forget from all the things you want to remember For all the things you want to make memories of

Why do you long for pain with nostalgia? Yet ache when it comes?

Will you always be so rotten?

The streetlight tapers out and its light fades. One more thing dies. Rotten Rebel Girl!

The streetlight blazes back to life. Why are you disappointed?

Are you tired of run, run, running With nobody by your side?

What is your favourite fower? What is your favourite fower?

by Rebecca Parkinson

What is your favourite fower? Personally, I have always loved tulips. Every year, bouquets of them appear to food the streets at the frst sight of spring, each screaming “pick me” as you admire their beauty.

Those two words, “Pick me”, have overtaken pop culture via TikTok, originating from the iconic line in Grey's Anatomy “Pick me. Choose me. Love me.” A sentence that was instantly used as a tool to pit women against each other. Something I didn’t realize until a friend pointed it out to me.

In 2020, during Covid-19s frst wave, videos all over TikTok started popping up with the term “pick me” to identify women who put other women down, or act as damsels in distress for male validation and attention. I thought the trend was funny and relatable. At the height of this, I had a conversation on Facetime with my friends. Each of us in our own rooms and on our own phones, isolating. The faces of my friends fooded my phone screen as we talked about our lives.

Eventually, our conversation drifted to my friend talking about someone she thought was a “pick me girl,” words that became natural in our vocabulary, as the trend intended. At that time, I didn’t think much of the words in my friend's rant.

It wasn’t until my other friend countered her comment and explained why the term “pick me” is harmful. They explained that using the term is in itself misogynistic, as it shames women who are conditioned by the patriarchal society to want mens approval and acceptance.

In the moment, I had partially agreed, not fully understanding the harm the term causes. I still believed “some'' people truly deserved the title of being a “pick me girl.” As a group, we all moved on from the conversation agreeing that it's not the best way to describe women but also not investigating the impact or reasoning behind the issue further.

In the following weeks, this conversation stuck in my mind as I thought about how as women we decided to blame each other instead of the institutional patriarchy that allows this to happen. This led to my investigation of my own relationship with feminism and how it infuences my relationships with the people in my life.

Starting this process was confusing. However, I eventually learned to notice the subtle ways misogyny shows up in my everyday life, it was like a persistent weed that never seems to leave no matter how many times you pluck it from the ground. I’ve stayed up at night, thinking about how its been able to weave itself into many aspects of society. From makeup to conversation dynamics between diferent genders to TikTok trends that are always circulating, misogyny always seems to be entwined.

I’ve also noticed how women tend to treat each other. It seems like every month there is a new trend of women trying to put other women down. We’ve created trends that put down girls who are too ‘girly’, or are not ‘girly’ enough, who listen to ‘basic’ music or try to be ‘too diferent’. Women started belittling each other as we decided that we needed to be the most diferent, unique person while simultaneously trying to be the least “pick me” possible.

Understanding this pattern has led me to embrace that I am just like the other girls. Finding the ideal fower in a market will change for each individual. We all have our own favourites and although tulips are mine, roses might be someone else's. This means that competition between women is pointless.

Understanding this pattern has led me to embrace that I am just like the other girls. Finding the ideal fower in a market will change for each individual. We all have our own favourites and although tulips are mine, roses might be someone else's. This means that competition between women is pointless.

There can be no universal standard for girls in any case, because we all view something diferent as the perfect we strive for.

In the end, this only creates greater divides between us.

I’ve defnitely been guilty of putting other women down for my own gain, especially during the transition from middle to high school. But now that I’ve grown; I can see that we are not the root of the issue but rather a product of the society we live in. Just like how seeds can only germinate under the perfect conditions, we can only blame the external forces that mold us for these shortcomings.

But just like how fowers are rarely bought individually, if we can help each other out instead of seeing each other as our rivals, we could work together to fght against the sexism that runs so deep. Because while fowers are nice on their own, they’re beautiful together.

A Game of Chess

A Game of Chess

Emelie Gordon

35mm Film

4x6 in

To Rule With Fear To Rule With Fear

by Anonymous

1532,

In Italian diplomat and author, Niccolo Machiavelli published a riveting political piece, The Prince. It challenged widely accepted ideals and morals, and brought up a point that is still relevant today. Machiavelli wrote “It is better to be feared than to be loved, if one cannot be both."

I can still recall one fateful day in fourth grade. I was just about to get my results back for a math test, a subject that I had always excelled in. Except on this day, when I turned over the paper, there in front of me, written in blood red ink, was a B-. I stood there horrifed, as I slowly realized that I would have to show my results to my parents.

The next test that I received had a cheerful red A+ written on it. The highest mark in the class. From this, I realized that my parents had bettered me, even though I had to go through hours of terror to improve. Perhaps it was indeed true that fear was superior to love.

It’s always felt as if my parents have ruled over me with an iron fst. As a child, I spent a lot of time studying under the watchful eye of my parents, and I tended to be hit or yelled at when I got any questions wrong. My friends had always questioned this, as their parents ruled in quite a diferent way. They never had to study with their parents. They were never screamed at by their parents.

That night, there was a considerable amount of yelling and crying, as I was forced to not only review the test that I had done badly on, but also every lesson that I had already done that year. I stayed up late, studying under threat of my father’s slipper coming down on me every time I made a mistake.

Almost as if they weren’t being ruled over at all. This made it very challenging for them to understand my parent’s style of ruling.

They shouldn’t be able to boss you around like that! They would exclaim, and I would sigh, afrming that I had no power to control my parents. Still their words stuck with me, even several years later during the COVID 19 lockdown.

It was 8th grade, and school had just gone online. Clearly, the school board wasn’t ready to handle the quarantine, and neither was I. Every week, my teachers would send emails about the work that I was supposed to do, and week after week, I would put it of until the last minute, sometimes past the deadline.

Suddenly, an unfamiliar noise cut through the silence like a knife. It was brief, but I was certain that I had heard a footstep.

The work was piling up, until the last few weeks of the school year. That’s when I realized how deep of a hole I dug myself into. That week, I stayed up until 3 AM several times to fnish my homework. All without the knowledge of my parents of course. What would they do to me if they had found out I had put of over 10 assignments to the last minute?

My mother was awake, and she was heading to my room. Panic, and dread washed over me, as I quickly realized what was about to happen. How would I explain the situation to her? Should I lie? Should I hide? Maybe I should stand up for myself. After all, I shouldn’t let my parents boss me around!

And so, this routine went on for the whole week, until the last day, Friday. I was fnally one assignment away from completing everything. I sat in my chair, typing away in my dimly lit room. The only sound in the silent house was the clickity-clack of my fngers on the keyboard, and the soft hum of my computer fan.

All these thoughts crossed my mind as the footsteps got closer and closer. I mentally braced myself, as the door slowly opened, and my mom walked into my room. She looked over at me, hunched over my laptop, pale as a sheet. Then, she did something that I never would have expected.

She laughed. She wasn’t mad at me?

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“You’ve been staying up these past few nights fnishing homework?” she asked. “You’ve been working hard, I’m proud of you.”

She knew the whole time! A sense of relief washed over me, along with a sense of guilt. Here I was, fnishing assignments late at night, that should have been done weeks ago! She had every right to be disappointed, or angry. Yet, she was proud? My mom left my room, and returned with a cup of water, and a small bowl of fruit.

Were my parents right to rule with fear? Were they steering my future in the right direction by choosing to be strict with me, rather than showering me with praise? Is it better to rule with fear rather than love?

“Finish your assignments now.” she whispered, as she hugged me. I cried, overwhelmed by the amount of emotion that I was experiencing. And it was at this moment that I realized that my parents truly loved me.

And after much thought, I’ve come to the conclusion that the question itself is completely pointless.

To put it simply, parents are not rulers, and they never will be. At the end of the day, parents are parents, and no matter how strict they are, they will love you more than any ruler would.

All my life, I had been wondering the same question.

You cannot compare a parent to a ruler, because a ruler provides love for personal gain, but parents love unconditionally. Is it better to rule with fear? Possibly. However, we can’t apply this question to the parents that work to see us succeed.

We Proudly Serve Our Troops Here

We Proudly Serve Our Troops Here

Evva Sofa Pereira Liapis

35mm Film

by Anonymous Solving for

my dad said for what felt like the eightieth time. I was crying at the dinner table with my math homework in front of me soaked in tears shed out of frustration. Little did I know, a single piece of paper in front of me with a question asking me to solve for “x” was going to be my most frustrating experience to date.

My dad tried his best to help me, but what he was saying did not match what my teacher had taught in the lesson nor was it any closer to solving the problem. The only thing that I understood was when he said; “Sorry, I forgot how to do this. It’s been a long time.”

Why was it that other people had their parents to help them but no one to help me? I sounded ungrateful, and I know I shouldn’t be, but it was just so unfair. I understood that my parents never got the chance to go to university or college due to fnancial difculties - but they went to a high school in China where math was rigorous and far more advanced,

so why couldn’t they teach me a simple math problem?

I resented my parents for the lack of help they could ofer me.

I didn’t understand why they couldn’t teach me anything they’d learned, especially when the equation I was stuck on was something they’d learned in elementary school. Even though it’s been a long time since they’ve been in school, it didn’t change my resentment towards them. I was missing so many things, so much knowledge that other people had.

An equation is unsolvable when you are missing something. I remember when all the kids in my class would raise their hands so high with confdence, knowing that they had the correct answer.

Those same kids would also do their classwork without struggle and be praised by the teacher. It was not fair how they received the praise when a majority of those kids had their parents or older siblings to help them; I’ve always envied them.

I felt stupid because everyone was better than me. It was like I was stuck doing an unsolvable problem by myself while everybody else had cheat sheets. Everybody had parents or older siblings who helped them; I had no one.

“Wrong. Again,”

“x” Solving for “x”

My parents compared me to those kids who would efortlessly thrive without struggle and I always felt incompetent because I was never as good as them. But it was not fair. I was missing the variables I needed to solve for my equation, while others were already given what they needed.

After eating all my apple slices, I erased all of my incorrect work, and I took a deep breath and let out a sigh. I proceeded to attempt the problem again, and moments later I had fnally solved for “x.” I whispered to my dad that I did it. I solved what felt like the impossible.

I remember seeing his face light up like he just solved the unsolvable as well. It was then I realized that my parents have taught me other things.

My parents compared me to other kids who were perceived as intelligent in their eyes, even when they knew those kids received support from their family, something that they couldn’t give me.

It was not fair. I started to hiccup from crying too hard. With tears blurring my vision I saw the vague refections of my dining room and the shadows of my dad leaving the room. I was stressed, frustrated, helpless, and miserable. I hated how lonely and helpless I was.

The equation was unsolvable. There could not be any possible solutions.

Things that I am so used to, things that are part of me, the lessons that only someone who loves you can teach; treating people with kindness and respect, knowing when someone is uncomfortable, having good manners, how nothing comes for free, all

Even though my parents could not beneft me educationally, they supported the path I took alone.

My dad came back with sliced and peeled apples - just how I like them. My dad placed the bowl of apples on the dining table and said, "take a break.”

At last, I have fnally solved for “x.” The unknown variable wasn’t something that was unsolvable, I just had to see it diferently by rearranging my perspective.

It was only when I rearranged that I realized the impossible equation wasn’t impossible to solve after all.

“x”

Looking Back

Looking Back

Digital Photography

Bryndoven O'Krafka

Tree Frog

Tree Frog

Watercolour

Emelie Gordon

6x8”

Transformation

Transformation

Pencil Crayon and Ink

Bryndoven O'Krafka

38x28cm

No Unaddressed Mail

No Unaddressed Mail

Evva Sofa Pereira Liapis 35mm Film

Cofee Shop

Cofee Shop

by Bryndoven O’Krafka

The start of a conversation

Can lead to so much more

What begins as surface level

Can turn into someone we adore

Two people weaving their lives

With words, laughter and tears

One day it began in a cofee shop

Then the days turned into years

Thrift Shop

Thrift Shop

by Bryndoven O’Krafka

Each item has its own story

It has lived somewhere else before

It has come to this shop to fnd a new home

Waiting for the right person to walk in the door

Until that new owner arrives,

Odds and ends will hang in the aisles

Unlike new items, these misfts have a past

And they have traveled for many miles

Then that day arrives when the item is sold

And it becomes a new treasure to behold

Ode to Books

Ode to Books

by Bryndoven O’Krafka

So many books on the shelf

Almost too many to choose, What adventure will I embark on What characters will be my muse?

Fiction, drama, romance or mystery

There are countless plots in store

Once you dive into the pages You’ll never be the same as before.

Captivated by the words on paper

Pages and chapters are fying by Hours of reading absorb my time

Feeling inspired and on a literary high!

PainPain

by Manaal Suleiman

A

ll around me there were people dancing, each with a partner. All except for me. Sadness caressed me, but the pain only felt dull now. After all I wasn’t a stranger to heartbreak. Time and time again I was played like a recorder, only once it was broken it wasn’t of any use anymore. Like me. Yet this time I’d allow myself to fall, fall hard. And there was no way for me to dig myself out of the hole I’d dug myself into. Love wasn’t everything, it was just a four letter word that humans abused day and day out. It was a word that meant nothing. It was meaningless. I stood in the alcove in the shadows I’d hid in, eating my fnger sandwiches in peace. Until a strong arm grabbed me and dragged me into a room.

going to pretend nothing happened? I can’t keep going this way, waiting for afection as if I’m a puppy, following you around.” His beautiful honey coloured eyes widened in shock, his perfect composure evaporating. “I-I h-had t-“

“STOP, I don’t need your empty excuses. ” I interrupted, I was done with his bullshit. Him always asking me to meet him in sketchy places, like the palace gardens at quarter to midnight, in the darkness of an alcove. It was almost as if he didn’t want to be seen with me, I couldn’t run around like a thief at night anymore. I had to accept it,

I wasn’t wanted.

“WHAT THE F—“

I managed before a cool hand covered my mouth. Darkness enveloped the room, the windows shining light on the culprits face. Brown almond shaped eyes met my thick lashed ones. Dark silky hair spilled over a handsome golden face. Him.

“So how’s your evening been?” He asked, casually as if he hadn’t ignored me for the past year. Laughter bubbled up my throat. “How’s my evening been?” I said mockingly, all my self control dissipating. “You’ve ignored for the past six months and now you’re

“I-I just can’t do this shit anymore.” I added, silent tears spilling down my face. His eyebrows creased, a pout on his painfully gorgeous face. Light streaming from the wide window of the room illuminated the right side of his face, highlighting his high cheekbones. I turned to walk away, to continue my miserable life in this miserable palace with its political games that seemed to never end. To return to the wine I had been nursing, that would erase all my worries. Yes, that was it, I would consume it until I blacked out, until all the pain became numb. I had done it before, in fact almost every-night, it had worked then

so why not now? I started my journey away from this pretty boy that I had thought loved me.

It had been fun at frst, the sneaking around. The feeling that I was loved, wanted even. That I was being noticed by the Crown Prince. That he noticed me even though he was betrothed. He made me feel like I was the chosen one, that I mattered. There I was, falling and hard, and falling through a hole that I now realized that he hadn’t fallen in with me. No, I was alone. Like always. He had me thinking that I was the world, the mischievous glint in his eyes when he kissed me giving me butter fies every single damn time. That had been my downfall. And rapidly, just as the whirlwind romance had started, it ended. Ending with me realizing I’d been played and had been a lovesick fool the whole entire time.

Soon I could feel his warm hand on my jaw, cupping my cheek in his hand as his body pressed into mine, pushing my back tight against the wall. “Calista, you are my undoing, have always been…” He whispered, like little caresses against my skin. I tried not to look at him, I really tried but curiosity got the best of me and my eyes connected with his.

His eyes were molten chocolate, heated from the way he gazed at me. Like he was awestruck, the way he always stared at me that made me feel like I was the only one in the room, in the world in fact. Brushing his thumb over my lips, I tried to get out of the trance he was putting me in, the spell that was so damn hard for me to break.

“Goodbye Lucian.” I said wistfully, dragging my feet to the door. Reaching for the handle I could suddenly feel the heat of his hand on mine.

“Wait Calista!” He replied, his tone pleading. He tugged me close, turning me around so that I was face to face with him. He veered closer, his painfully beautiful face just inches away from my face. His eyes were fxed on me, pools of honey gazing into my hazel eyes. His gaze shifted to my lips, and I knew it was all over for me. “Calista.” He whispered, my name a lovely melody in his mouth.

“I-I can’t be with you like this anymore, do you know how damaging this is to my mental health????!” I exclaimed angrily, while in his grasp. He slipped an arm around my waist, the other in my tight midnight curls. Amber eyes glowing bright he opened his mouth as if to say something, like a gaping fsh. Then fnally it seemed that he had fnally found the words he had meant to say.

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“Calista, I must confess-“ He paused, looking anywhere but at my face, as if searching for the words in the darkness. “-I’m madly in love with you.” He ended with a sigh, cheeks tinged with embarrassment.

“NONSENSE!” I replied, fabbergasted, frozen in his arms. Then he stared at me intensely, yearning hot in his gaze, then he continued on as if I had never said a word.

the time in the world, not like he had always kissed me before: urgently, fercely, like we were going to be caught.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see you, your chartreuse eyes, inky curled hair, freckled skin, you are all I can dream about, let alone think of. I wish I had a picture of your smile, because every time I see you smile, I fall even harder for you Calista.”

His lithe body pressed me harder against the wall, his body smelling like eucalyptus and lavender. “God, you’re so pretty.” He exclaimed with a sigh against my jaw, while pressing kisses on the column of my neck. I could feel my heart pounding faster, faster…

As my eyes widened, electric sparks in the air, he continued.

Suddenly light bathed the small room, searing my eyes as I tried to jump out of Lucian’s arms, but it was too late we had already been caught.

“I want you all the time, this fame of love for you in my heart is impossible to extinguish. I just want you to be mine forever and always.” He said, whispering that last part as his thumb grazed my lips, bringing his lips closer, and closer to mine.

“WHY Y-YOU BASTARD!!” She cried out angrily, her porcelain cheeks fushing red. She lunged for me, fury in her eyes, looking murderous. I recoiled, expecting the sting of a slap but instead I only felt cool air, her hand hovering in midair, restraining herself as she noticed the crowd of courtiers that had accumulated.

“Be mine Calista, be mine forevermore…” He whispered against my lips before our lips met. I ran my fngers through his dark silky hair, as he kissed me slowly, as if we had all

“This is my real fancé, the love of my life.” Lucian said with a wicked smirk, pulling me close to his chest. And Lucian’s ex-fancée fainted, caught by one of the courtiers as she fell to the ground.

Pain

Pain Manaal Suleiman

Digital Illustration

15x20 in