[7]

Jim,

I’m not good at talking, and I’m even worse at explaining things. I should’ve been honest from the start, but I thought maybe if I didn’t say it out loud, I could pretend it wasn’t happening. But you deserve the truth. So I figured I’d write this down before you get back to your paints.

There’s something I haven’t told you. I’ve been sick for a long time. Longer than you. They don’t talk about it much because there’s not much to talk about. There’s no big operation waiting for me. No chance for a miracle. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to take away your hope. You’ve got enough going on without carrying my weight too.

But the truth is, I’ve given up. I’ve been fading for a while now, and that’s why my paintings look the way they do. Because that’s how I feel—faded, like the color’s been drained out of me. Meeting you, though... it changed something. It made me remember what color felt like. What hope felt like. You were my hope.

I’ve never told anyone this, but I’ve always believed that art reflects the artist’s soul. Because art is the language of the soul. And yours... yours is full of life. To me, art is like an offering, too. To a world that has given me so little, to a world that has taken from me so much, it is my offering. My good will. In hopes that, someday, someone will be lead in the right direction. Even when you were scared, even when you didn’t know what was coming, you kept painting sunsets and sunrises like the world was still full of color. That’s something special, Jim. Don’t lose that. 

I’d wanted to stay around to see the spring arrive next year. And see what you'd draw with your colors then. But maybe I can't. I wanted to meet you one last time, to thank you. But the world wouldn’t allow me. So I’m writing it here. Thanks, Jim! For showing me that maybe, just maybe, there’s still some color left in the world.

Keep painting, Jim. For both of us.

Carter

The letter slipped from my fingers, floating to the floor as my vision blurred. I tried to breathe, but the air was thick, suffocating. Tears blurred the edges of the room, a pain tightening in my chest until I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Then I was sobbing, the kind that shakes you to your core, unraveling everything you’ve tried so hard to hold together. My shoulders heaved as I buried my face in my hands. Carter’s words were echoing in my mind.

I’d wanted to stay around to see the spring arrive next year.

I don’t know how long I sat there, letting the grief wash over me in waves. But eventually, I wiped my eyes and glanced up—and unfolded the piece of paper.

It was just a pencil sketch of mine, simple and unassuming. Carter had drawn it, I could tell. But, it felt different than his rest. Alive.

The shading was soft, gentle—my eyes, my face, every line captured with such care that it was as if he had poured all the parts of me I couldn’t see into that sketch. There was no color in the drawing, just graphite on paper. And there, right above the flower vase in the background, was the tiniest splash of blue, just like the lilies we used to talk about.

That single stroke of color, so small and delicate, felt like everything Carter hadn’t said. All the hope, all the love, all the life he had wanted to show me, all wrapped up in that tiny patch of blue.

I looked over at the blank sketchbook beside my bed. And for the first time since the operation, I picked up my brush.

And I began to paint.