[3]

A few days later, I found Carter back in the hospital lounge, sitting in the same spot. Carter had laid out some supplies—brushes, paints, a new sketchbook, and other tools that were entirely foreign to me. I glanced at them, feeling slightly overwhelmed, unsure how I was supposed to turn those smears of color into anything remotely resembling a picture. But that wasn’t going to stop me from trying.

“Alright,” Carter said, sifting through the equipments one by one. He first gave me a quick rundown of all the things I needed to know. Apparently, there are three types of water color brushes. Don't know how that'll come in handy, though. The sun was filtering through the high windows, casting long, faded beams, highlighting Carters features. “So, what do you want to paint?”  He said, giving me a look that felt more like he was testing me than teaching me.

I stared at the blank page in front of me. It reflected my mind—empty, blank, almost echoing with uncertainty. “I don’t know. Something bright, I guess? Something that feels alive.” I gave a half-smile, a corner of my lips arching upwards.

Carter’s eyebrow twitched slightly, with a small sign of irritation breaking through his calm facade. He handed me a brush. “Alive, huh? Start with the yellow.”

I dipped the brush into the bright yellow paint. A round-shaped No. 10. The way the bristles soaked up the color was kind of interesting. But there was something about the paint that felt heavier than it should’ve, like it carried weight beyond just pigment and oil. As I hovered the brush over the blank paper, a strange sensation kept creeping in me. It wasn’t fear, but something close. A pressure. I had never felt this before. As if whatever I painted would mean more than just a picture—it would say something about me. Putting myself bare.

The first stroke was broad and messy, a streak of yellow slashing across the page. It wasn’t neat, but I grinned anyway. “There you go,” Carter said, though his tone lacked any real excitement. “What’s next?”

I thought for a moment, recalling what I’d said earlier about colors. “Blue. For the sky.”

He handed me the blue, and I started adding streaks, blending it awkwardly with the yellow. The colors didn’t mix the way I’d imagined. I could see the painting in my head—perfect, alive, filled with promise. But as each stroke fell onto the paper, it became more chaotic, more unpredictable. I was making a mess of it, and I knew it. Yet I couldn’t stop. I kept layering reds, greens, oranges, filling the page with whatever I could get my hands on.

Carter watched in silence, his own brush resting idly in his hand, as though he had no intention of painting anything that day. But I didn’t mind. I was lost in the whirlwind of trying to create something beautiful, even if it came out looking more like a storm than a painting.

When I finally sat back to look at what I had done, I let out a breath. The painting in front of me, though one wouldn’t call it, was a chaotic explosion of colors. It wasn’t pretty, not by any traditional standards, but it felt... alive. Like it had a pulse of its own.

Carter glanced at it, nodding slightly. “Not bad.”

I grinned. “Really?”

“Well,” he said with a small smirk, “not good either. But it’s got... um... energy, I guess?”

I stared at the painting, both proud and embarrassed. “It’s supposed to be a sunset,” I explained, “like one of those evenings when the sky just... explodes before everything goes dark.”

Carter tilted his head, eyeing my work. “A sunset, huh? Seems more like a sunrise. Maybe you’re not ready to admit it’s getting dark yet.”

I blinked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, reaching for a pale gray and starting to lay down slow, careful strokes on his own sketchbook. “Your colors—they’re loud, desperate, like you’re trying to hold on to something slipping away.”

“What are you, an art connoisseur? What are you even saying?” His words came almost uninvited, tying a knot in my stomach. I couldn’t ignore the truth behind his words, but I pushed it aside. “I like bright colors,” I said. “They make things feel more... real.”

Carter’s hand moved fluidly across his painting, quiet and deliberate, forming a picture that contrasted sharply with mine. He painted a setting sun too, but it was calm, subdued. His colors faded as though the scene itself was disappearing, retreating into the distance. There was something haunting about the way his sunset seemed so final.

“This is how I see it,” he said after a while, still focused on his work. “It’s all there, but it’s quiet. Like the world’s lost its sound, and all that’s left, the colors to speak for it.”

I frowned, staring at his painting. “It’s nice... but sad, too.”

Carter chuckled softly, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Yeah. Maybe it is.”

I kept watching him, trying to understand the contrast between us. I painted like I was fighting for something, for hope, for life. But Carter... he painted like he’d already let go. “Why do you paint like that? Don’t you want to add more color?”

He paused for a moment before answering, not looking up from his painting. “Color’s just a mask, Jim. You can paint the world in a thousand shades, but it doesn’t change what’s underneath. Reality stays the same. You’ll see that, eventually. But for now,” he added, his voice softening, “have fun with the colors. Paint how you want.”

I wasn’t sure if I should argue or agree. I looked back at my own painting, at the messy, bright chaos I had created. “I don’t know, man. I think color makes things feel more alive. Like there’s still something worth fighting for.”

Carter didn’t respond. He just kept painting, each stroke slow, almost like he was drawing the very essence of his thoughts into his painting. Our words had formed a kind of mist between us, hanging in the air. With a sort of tension, thick, as if we were both standing on the edge of something we weren’t ready to confront—something neither of us could bring ourselves to say aloud.

I glanced over at him, his face drawn tight, focused entirely on his work. It felt like he was hiding behind those careful strokes, hiding into the muted colors that seemed to reflect more than just his art. I wanted to say something... something to break the silence, but nothing came. The words were there, on the tip of my tongue, but they wouldn’t form. Not yet.

I looked back at my own painting, the chaotic splash of bright hues staring back at me, almost mockingly. It was too much, too bold for the quiet hospital room. I took my sketchbook and brush back into my hands, and started smearing more colors onto the already mess of a painting, “Carter, if you really think like that, then, let me teach you otherwise.”

“Be my guest.” Carter sounded a bit surprised, though didn’t bring his gaze back up.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”