Unifinished Masterpieces

We stood in the plaza outside the cathedral. It was busy today. The morning was cool, and the day ahead felt fulll of endless possibilities.

She looked at the sculptures, but I only looked at her. Her eyes were full of wonder; she was utterly mesmerised. 

“One day,” she said, “one day I’m going to make art like that.”

I thought about what she said on that day. I thought about it for a long time, until I was losing sleep and skipping meals and falling behind on my schoolwork.

I visited her often. Her room was unfinished canvases, crumpled papers, paint stains on the carpet, and not much else. In the middle of the tiny space, her, paint brush in hand, hair splayed out on the carpet. She was defeated, but not exhausted. Though her eyes were full of despair as she gazed up at the plain gray ceiling, I knew she was far from giving up on her dreams. I sat on the floor next to her, offering my company. That was all I could do, anyway. Before, I used to actively praise and encourage her with carefully chosen words. That only made her more depressed. I knew better at that stage than to fill her room useless words. So, we rested on the floor. She didn’t acknowledge me, but I didn’t need her to. She was lost in her own landscape of thoughts, things I couldn’t begin to imagine. I loved seeing her so deep in her thoughts, I felt I was witnessing something so enchanting and otherworldly. While she was lost wherever she was lost, I was enthralled in my own thoughts of her. I knew she was destined to do so many great things. I was certain she would come to mean a great deal to the whole world. She meant a great deal to me, at the very least.

The sickness came slowly. A pain in one leg without reason. A persistent cough that made sleep impossible. Eventually she could only stay in bed. The sickness creeped and lured her into darker times, into paper sheets, green gowns, and an endless chain of overnight stays in the hospital. Even then she was at work, pencil in hand, sketching. Even then, despite all her determination, she couldn’t do it. “It’s unfair,” she would say over and over. One time, she broke out laughing. “I’m dying, and I still can’t even make anything.”

I took her hand in mine. It was the first time I ever did that. My hand was beating so fast in my chest and my breath shaky as I looked into her eyes. She didn’t move, nor did she look at me. Her eyes were empty. I saw no hint of wonder, nor sadness, only bitter resignation.

“No,” I said. “Don’t say that, you will get through this. You’ll get better. You still have so much time to make things.”

With much effort, she sat upright. She swayed. I went to steady her, but she pushed my hand away. I felt awkward, neither of us said a word. I counted the seconds. Suddenly, she threw the pencil hard against the wall so that it made a sharp clack. I flinched, she fell back into bed. I thought about going to pick the pencil up, but didn’t. I only stared at her dumbly. She only stared at the ceiling. After that, she never lifted another pencil.

I stood in the plaza outside the cathedral. Clouds, gray and swarming, formed a cover that made the world feel like a tiny room. Crowds moved around me like one great mass. Nothing was familiar. I looked at the sculptures not with wonder but desperation. “Why?” I said, my voice soft with weakness. “How could you?” The figures of stone were indifferent to my cries.

The ground was hard and painful on my knees. Cold dark grit of the city streets stuck to my palms. I felt eyes on me, but nobody stopped or stared. I choked back tears as images of her face raced through my mind. I saw her unfished masterpieces scattered along her floor. I saw the sculptures. “One day I’m going to make art like that.”

It was then that I thought I didn’t have to be alone. Tonight, I could see her again. We could be together. It would be so simple. I had made my up mind, when somebody approached me.

They stopped a short distance from me and crouched down. I couldn’t look at another person. We remained like that for a long time, until finally they spoke. “Who was it?”

“... Someone who mattered enormously to me.”

A short silence filled the space. I thought I could hear my words bounce off the clouds overhead. Then they spoke again. “Why did they matter so much to you?”

I froze. I never actually knew why. I gave some stupid answer I can’t remember like ‘she was my friend’ or ‘I knew her for a long time’.

“Well, if that is the case, she wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

“I don’t know.” I said. “She was meant to be an artist. She was supposed to do amazing things.”

“Did you love her?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. I think that’s true. But I think it’s more complex than that. The way I see it, you truly did care about her. You were there for her, you supported her, but in that time you neglected yourself.

“And you —you are capable of amazing things. You must understand that all the potential, all the amazement, all the beauty you saw in her, you have within yourself. You always have. You simply forgot. And now she is gone. But you are still here. You have your own unfinished masterpieces. I think she would want you to remember that.”

I looked up to see who this person was, to tell them that I didn’t think I could believe in myself the way I believed in her. But when I looked, I was shocked to find no one at all.