[4]

The weeks, and then months, passed in a haze of routine after that. Hospital beds, checkups, tests. And, of course, painting. Twice, sometimes trice a week, Carter and I would meet in my cabin, as we tried to bring more color into the world. Or, at least, I did.

My paintings grew more complex, more vivid. I painted sunsets, sprawling fields of flowers, the ocean crashing against a rocky shore. I once read in a book, though I can’t remember the title... If you really put up a fight, something will break down and give a way. Each of my painting was filled with bold, bright colors, as if I could somehow paint myself into a better future. Each stroke was a small rebellion against the uncertainty hanging over me.

Carter, though... his paintings didn’t change much. They were still muted, still quiet. But now and then, I’d notice something different—a streak of orange in a gray sky, or a patch of green in a fading landscape. It was subtle, barely there, but it was there. And every time I saw it, I’d feel a small flicker of hope, like maybe Carter was starting to see the world a little differently, too.

One day, I finally decided to ask him. “You ever think about adding more color?”

Carter didn’t look up from his painting. “What’s wrong with how it is?”

I sighed, setting down my brush. “I don’t know. It’s just... your stuff’s good, but it feels like something’s missing.”

He paused for a moment, then added another stroke of dull brown to his painting. “Maybe that’s because it is.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

Carter didn’t answer right away. His brush kept moving, adding layers to the landscape he’d been working on for days. Finally, he said, “Not everything is all bright and sunny, Jim. Some things just... fade.”

"What's that to do with using more colors?"

"Do you think more colors will just make things better? Like a holy grail? "

I shook my head. “That’s not true. I mean, look at you—you’re still here, still painting. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

Carter’s hand stopped mid-stroke, and for a moment, I thought I’d said something wrong. But then he set his brush down and leaned back in his chair, staring at his painting like it was something he didn’t recognize.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But sometimes, it feels like the world’s already decided how things are going to end. And no amount of color can change that. Let me ask you then... why do you think you need colors, Jim?”

“To make it more real,” I said, pausing mid-stroke, “more lively.”

“So, you’re saying pencil sketches can’t make a painting feel alive?”

“Uh... um... they do?”

“Listen, Jim. This is the hundredth time we’re having this silly argument. You can’t talk your way into having me waste away all the color tubes like you!”

“You’re just too adamant...”

“Gosh... you know what, are you feeling fine today?”

“Why?”

“I’m done with painting for today. Let’s have a walk outside.”

I guess I was more than willing to his proposal. I can’t quite remember the last time I had stepped outside, as both mom and dad have been busy with work lately, and my health has only been going downhill since last month. Guess it will be a good change of pace too.

Carter and I stepped outside the hospital. The first thing was the cool breeze hitting my face, an almost welcoming change from the stale air of the hospital room. The park wasn’t far, just a few minutes’ walk, but it felt like another world altogether—a place where I could breathe. The greenery, the open sky, it all felt surreal.

Carter was walking beside me, his hands shoved into his pockets, and for once, we weren’t talking. Not yet, anyway. The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable, though. It felt like we were both waiting for something, for words that would eventually come, even if we didn’t know what they would be.

We reached the park, and I noticed how alive everything seemed. People were scattered around, some sitting on benches, others walking or chatting. It felt peaceful, yet there was a certain energy in the air, a quietness of life continuing, unaffected by the chaos inside me. Carter glanced at me, then at the world around us. “You ever think about how painting is like a sixth sense?” he asked suddenly.

I looked at him, puzzled. “A sixth sense?”

“Yeah,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the park. “Most people see things with their eyes, but they don’t really see. When you paint, you start noticing the details that slip past most people. It’s like you’re tapping into something deeper. Something invisible.”

He pointed toward a man sitting on a bench nearby. “Look at him,” Carter said. “Most people would just see a guy taking a break. But notice the way the folds of his forehead gather—he’s frustrated. His clothes are wrinkled, his tie loosened, and his head's in his hands. Probably from work. His whole posture screams exhaustion.”

I followed Carter’s gaze, watching the man. He wasn’t wrong. The guy looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.Then Carter shifted his attention to a woman walking by, a child on one hip and a shopping bag in her other hand. “See her? Look closely at her right hand.”

I squinted, noticing a burn mark on her skin, almost hidden by the way she gripped the bag. Carter continued, “She’s juggling her life. Burnt her hand, probably cooking, but she’s still pushing through. Carrying her kid, running errands. Look at the way her muscles are stiff—she’s in pain, but she won’t show it. She can’t.”

And then he went on, almost unending. I just nodded, starting to see the park in a different light. It was like everything had an underlying story, a layer of meaning that was invisible unless you knew how to look for it. “But not everyone sees things the same way,” Carter added. “To some, those details won’t mean anything. Or they might mean something entirely different. It depends on how you look at the world. That’s what makes art interesting—every perspective is unique.”

His words lingered in the air, and for a moment, I forgot about the hospital, about my illness. I just stood there, taking in everything around me—the man on the bench, the woman with the burn, the trees swaying gently in the breeze. It felt like the world had opened up in a way I hadn’t noticed before. Carter suddenly walked toward a small snack bar on the side of the park, leaving me with my thoughts. I watched as he bought a couple of bags of chips. He returned, tossing me a bag with a small grin.

“Chips won’t cure anything, but they help,” he said, his smile soft, almost like he was trying to lighten the mood.

I took the bag from him, but my mind was elsewhere. I kept thinking about what he’d said—how painting, how art, was a way of seeing the world. How he could look at people and pull out these details, these hidden stories, and translate them into his work. And then, I couldn’t help but wonder how he saw the world. His paintings had grown so pale, drained of life. Yet here he was, teaching me how to find meaning in every little detail, showing me how alive everything around us was. But if he saw the world in such vivid ways, why had his paintings become so… empty?

I opened my mouth, about to ask him, but before the words could form, a sudden, dull pain grabbed me right by the chest. It was faint at first, just enough to make me pause. But then it intensified, spreading like fire, making it hard to breathe. The world around me started to blur, fading into darkness. I could barely make out Carter rushing toward me, his voice sounding far away, like it was coming from underwater.

And then, everything went black.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back in my hospital bed. The white walls surrounding me like a cage. I blinked, disoriented, my chest still aching faintly. The nurse was by my side, but as soon as she noticed I was awake, she hurried out of the room, likely to fetch the doctor.

My head was spinning, my mind still trying to catch up with what had happened. I looked to my right and saw Carter sitting beside me. Looking down, his expressions were unreadable. For a moment, he didn’t stare back at me. I tried to sit up, but Carter’s hand gently pushed me back down. “Don’t,” he said softly. “Just stay put.”

I nodded, though part of me wanted to argue. I hated feeling weak. I hated being stuck in that bed, feeling like I had no control over my own body. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, though I wasn’t even sure what I was apologizing for.

Carter shook his head, brushing off my apology with a small, tired smile. “Don’t apologize, Jim. It’s not your fault.”

The door creaked open, and the doctor walked in, clipboard in hand. I barely registered his presence as he began asking me questions, checking my vitals. My mind was still on Carter—on the way he had looked at the world, on the things he had said back at the park. As the doctor finished his examination, Carter stood up, grabbing his bag. He gave me one last look and then turned to leave.

“I’ll come by tomorrow.”