Art might have been like air to me, but my greatest fear was that breathing again might cripple me. Art had a way of unlocking the parts of my soul I kept even from myself. It took a strong woman to confront those kinds of buried truths, and I wasn’t sure I was strong enough at the moment.

I remember the first day I realised art was my therapy. Sixteen at the time and working through my grief over losing my father, I’d locked myself away every afternoon after school and painted. I’d shut my friends out, but I hadn’t missed them, and I’d actually discovered I needed time with myself to heal. Some people needed to surround themselves with others to get through the hard parts of their lives, but I was the opposite – I needed to go within.

Mixing colours, playing with different techniques and allowing my soul to wash itself over the canvas had been my saviour.

After my conversation with Cassie, I’d left the café and headed home. I wasn’t sure I’d drag my paint out, but I’d sit in my art room and think. Maybe I’d journal. I’d at least go in there, even if only to be able to tell her I’d done what she’d asked. I didn’t want her harassing Scott with this. Not when he needed to be focused completely on Storm.

My art room sat perfectly organised and tidy, nothing out of place. Scott had cleared out his spare room when I’d moved in so I could set myself up in here, but I’d hardly used it. I eyed the bookshelf that held my paints. So much beautiful colour in one place. Moving to the bookshelf, I picked up a tube of turquoise and unscrewed the lid. I squeezed the tube and allowed some paint to escape onto my finger. I then reached for one of my art journals and swiped the paint onto a random page.

My body stilled as I stared at the page in front of me. I’d expected a rush of inspiration or a feeling or a thought or something. Anything. Instead, empty taunted me.

Make it stop!

I don’t want to feel this way anymore.

Stepping away from the bookshelf with the paint, I moved to the desk and dropped the art journal on it. I yanked the chair out and slumped onto it. In frustration, I reached for a pen and began scrawling random words and sentences onto the page with the swipe of turquoise across it.

Why do I feel so lost?

Blank.

Suffering.

When will this end?

What is wrong with me?

Hope.

I will get better.

I feel like I’ve lost myself.

A tear splashed onto the page and another one sat on my eyelash. I didn’t wipe them away. They needed to fall. I need to fall.

I put the pen down and flipped to the first page in the journal. Settling back into the chair, I began to go through my art and read what I’d written. This was the last journal I’d worked on before I had my miscarriage so it held my most recent thoughts.

Over the next hour, I devoured not only this journal, but a few of my other ones. When I was finished, I pulled my legs up so my feet rested on the chair, and wrapped my arms around my legs. And I let the tears fall.

The woman who had bared her soul in those journals was not the woman I was today.

How did I change so much in such a short period of time?

That woman had confidence and faith and belief.

I have none.

I’d been going through the motions of life since my miscarriage and had been so consumed by the daily grind of life that I’d forgotten to live.

Where do I even start to find myself again?

I shoved the chair back and stood. God, I was seriously annoying myself with the back and forth of emotions. This couldn’t be healthy for anyone. Could it? Raking my fingers through my hair, I blew out a long, pissed off breath.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to kick something.

I wanted the madness in my mind to stop!

Stalking back to the bookshelf housing the paints, I grabbed as many tubes as I could hold and carried them back to the desk. I then opened my art journal again, picked up a paintbrush, and painted.

I had no idea what I’d paint – I simply let the art take over and allowed my soul to spill onto the page.

Hours passed.

I didn’t stop to eat.

I kept on painting.

Vibrant colour filled my pages and at some point, I moved to canvas.

More hours passed.

I moved to the floor of my art room.

When I finally looked up after a noise splintered my attention, the sky outside was dark, and paint covered not only my journal and three canvases, but also my skin.

Scott stood in the doorway to my art room with his arms folded across his chest and his feet planted wide. “Have you been in here all day?”

I blinked, disoriented. Frowning, I asked, “What time is it?”

“It’s just after seven.” His gaze shifted to take in the room; to take in the mess I’d created. My art supplies were strewn across the floor and over my desk.

I hardly remember making this mess.

Standing, I stepped over my supplies and walked to where he stood. Placing my hand on his chest, I apologised, “Sorry, I haven’t even thought about dinner yet.”

His hand caught mine as I shifted it off his chest. Not moving his gaze from mine, he said, “Sweetheart, I could give a fuck about dinner.”

Guilt filtered through me. Even though he didn’t care, I did. I wanted to be the woman he needed, and I wanted to look after him as well as he looked after me.

Before I could say anything, he placed a finger under my chin and tilted my face to his. “What are you thinking?” His voice was firm but gentle as he guided me to give him what he wanted.