The Image of Us

by Logan Spurgeon

1

Jackson

As I walk through the park, I think of the time I lost the love of my life. Well, not the love of my life. That’s a bit dramatic. For a moment, I think it was stupid of me to let him go. I see couples having picnics under the sprawling oak trees, unaware of the fortune they have before them. Shit, I miss that sometimes. I miss having someone. But the feeling quickly dissipates.

The sun radiates its warmth and I soak it up as I meander to the center of the park. When I pass the duck pond, I hear their gleeful quacking and the children laughing at them. I smile and almost forget my sadness. I enjoy these moments when my pain is pleasantly stolen from me, but it returns when I wind up at the fountain.

I sit down on the warm metal bench, its wrought iron carefully bent to the curve of my back, and sigh. At the center of the fountain, a beautiful man made of stone is holding a jar covered in shimmering jewels—emerald, amethyst, sapphire, ruby, and citrine—and when the sun hits them, the stones shine on the water and anyone who passes by.

The statue is looking down at the jar he’s holding, which is conveniently covering his crotch. Water pours out from the jar and flows down to the pool that surrounds the statue. The look on his face is curious, but content. I know that look well. Blaine made that face every time he was lost in himself. The body was not modeled after Blane’s, though—it is a replica of mine. He mixed our likenesses into one image and transmuted it into this statue.

Despite the wonder of the statue, I’ve begun to despise that Blaine’s one successful work of art is in my favorite park. I can’t enjoy my daily walk without thinking of him.

He was such a big part of my life but I couldn’t do it anymore. Maybe I should’ve given him more time, but there was nothing left there for me. His obsession with his work—and with me—was wildly unhealthy. He had nothing else to live for.

I was right to let him go. I won’t romanticize things like he did.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It could be a spam call, but for some reason I feel compelled to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Jackson. It’s Sam.”

“Oh.” I’m surprised to get a phone call from Blaine’s sister. She lives across the country, and the few times we interacted at family events, she never seemed to like me. I don’t even recall her having my number. Something feels wrong. “Everything okay?”

“No,” Sam says sharply. “I can’t get ahold of Blaine, and neither can anyone else. I know things ended badly between the two of you, but I was wondering if you’ve heard from him?”

Her voice is tinged with desperation and worry. Fuck. I feel a stir of concern, but I also know how Blaine is. “You know how he gets lost in his work. When he zeros in on something, that’s all he can think about.”

“I know, but this is different. No one’s heard from him at all in three weeks. I was about to call for a welfare check, but wanted to reach out to you first. I was hoping you would go check on him,” she admits.

Hell no. That’s what I want to say, but I hesitate to answer. It’s not that I’m unwilling to make sure he’s okay, I just don’t want to be pulled back into his drama. I don’t want him to think that I’m coming back. I need these boundaries, but I would hate myself if something was really wrong.

“Will you?” Sam asks me desperately.

“Yeah, I can stop by.”

“Today?”

“Sure, I’ll head that way in a bit. I’ll tell him to call you when I get there.” I try to hold back my annoyance. She’s asking a lot of me, but I’ll do it. Not for her, but for him. Despite our problems, I still hold some sort of feeling for him—even if it isn’t love.

I get up and make my way back to my house to get my keys, pulling out my phone to dial his number. It’s still in my favorites. I’m removing it as soon as this is all over. The phone rings until it hangs up with no answer. Blaine always picked up when I called. And knowing him, he would be waiting for my call.

Shit. I pick up my pace.

2

Blaine

I wander the house where we made memories together. Each worn wall, each fiber of the carpet, each piece of furniture has the perfume of his presence. I am reminded, even after all this time, that he once inhabited my space.

I haven’t been sleeping lately. Sometimes I wander the house at night like an old ghost, restless with horrible longings for things that aren’t there anymore. My whole body ached, my mind would jolt me awake with intrusive thoughts, and I was overwrought. Losing him was altering me.

How long has it been since he has gone? Hours, days, weeks, maybe longer. I have lost myself in the last remnants of him as time went on without me. I cry every time his pillow smells a little less like him—it’s a slow parade of evaporation. Time feels trivial when I face the reality of what I lost. It’s not like I’m sleeping, anyway. What is time without the usual demarcations of a life worth living?

“Come back,” I whisper to the sketches I did of him. Touching the flat images, I long to bring them into our dimensions, to make him appear before me again, to make him be with me again. It may sound like insanity, but this is the way I work. I have to make art. I have to take my ideas and mold them into a physical thing, bringing them to life with my breath and hands and tools.

I hang the rough ideas up on the wall in our bedroom, which is a mess because I don’t have the energy to live a normal life right now. I feel a shudder in my body, the terrible tremor that shows how fragile I am. I’m going to fall apart if he doesn’t return. I’m already falling apart. I need something to hold me together, something to hold us together forever.

I spent the last few nights trying to finish my work. I think I’ve finally found the right angle, light, and idea. Something inside of me bloomed, and I know this is it. This will be my final masterpiece, the pinnacle project, the epitome of our relationship.

Immediately, I run down to my art studio and get to work. I pencil together the vision that invades my mind. It is a beautiful preoccupation of the two of us, our bodies interlaced, our eyes locked, and we are drowning in the vast oceans of each other’s presence.

When I am finished with my rough draft, I realize its brilliance. It is complete, a work that would stand the test of time and be a tribute to all that we were and all that we will be again. It feels like home. It will be my home.

I drag out all the things I’ll need—molds, support structures, cast stone and cement, and my tools. It’s a frenzy at three in the morning, but I have to start now. I’m afraid I’ll lose the vision I have, that my muse will go away, so I start now. My last project was made of natural stone, but this has to be different. I don’t have time to carve. I need him now.

The rhythm finds me, and I jump back into the flow that I once had. I haven’t made a piece of art like this in a while, probably since the statue in the park. At the time, it was the peak of my hubris and the pinnacle of my life’s work. Although, in hindsight, I suppose it’s the penultimate piece. What I am creating now, my idyllic vision of how things should be, will be the sum of my artistry. This is it, this is all there is. This is him and me, enshrined.

3

Jackson

Sam calls me again, but I ignore it. I quickly text her that I’m driving. It’s true, but not really why I don’t want to talk to her. She’s just like her brother, and she needs to calm down. I’m sure he’s just being a recluse, like he is after every little inconvenience. Blaine is so dramatic.

The drive back is too familiar for me. I don’t like coming back here. I never planned on seeing him again and I’m pissed I’ve been roped into this whole thing.

I remember the last time we were really together. We were sitting at the coffee table, and he was across from me with a stupid smile on his face. I was staring out the window at nothing, trying to avoid eye contact.

Did he know what I was about to do? Blaine was never that aware of problems. I was nervous about breaking up with him, but I knew I had to get it over with. I pointed out a bird to make a few more moments pass—a few more moments of his happiness and my slipping sanity. All the while, I felt him looking at me. It was too much.

Then he reached for my hand and I pulled away. Blaine was stunned. He stayed motionless for a minute, and then came the confused look he always gave me.

“I love you,” he said. It was desperate, that’s for sure. He needed the affirmation, but it was something I couldn’t give him. Fuck.

“There’s something I have to tell you.” That was when I could see him shatter. He wasn’t expecting it.

Everything that unfolded after led to this moment. He was the heartbroken one and I was the asshole, but I don’t think he ever saw me that way. Blaine probably still has puppy dog eyes for me, which makes me sound like I’m the shit. I’m not. That’s just the way it was with him.

4

Blaine

He is done. I have searched for all the memories hidden in the alcoves of my mind. I have poured through hundreds of photos to find the exact shape, structure, and likeness of Jackson, and now I know him completely.

I decided to make the piece life size to better hold on to him. The carved image has eyes, but can he see me? He has ears, but can he hear me? Jackson has a mouth, but can he speak to me? I’ve certainly been speaking to him as if he can. I’m longing for the day when he talks to me again.

“Jackson, please talk to me.” I say. For a brief second, I hear a voice in the back of my head. Maybe it’s just me, but maybe it’s him. He’s somewhere inside of me—now to bring him to life.

To finish the statue, all that’s left is to mar myself into stone, to mold the image of myself that I’ve seen with him. The cement flows with ease as I put it against the bony skeleton. I start at the feet and wait until it dries. It adheres well, but after it dries, I begin to chisel away the rough edges until it is a replica of my own. I look at my feet and feel the lifelessness of it all. There’s an odd tinge against my skin—gray and gone.

The flow of stone up the frame is almost complete. I notice how hard it is becoming to continue on with the project. Once it’s done, what will I do? I can barely move from here. I’ve lost my appetite; I’ve lost my need to get around. I think I’m stuck in my art studio indefinitely.

How will I ever get this done? How can I finish it? I don’t know—but I’m compelled by my unrelenting, unquiet desire to be with him, to be like him, to be loved by him. Everything is obscured now. But I finish.

It’s done. I made it real. I have covered the cracks in my life, cemented the perfect past, and preserved what was. I have made myself happy, closed myself off from the cruelty that he caused, and expressed my pain in my art. How apropos. I give it my own breath with one final exhale. I am free from it all.

The thing that I felt deep within the shadows of my heart has taken form and I can let go. I am happy, I am here, I am home.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear a knock that echos as if I’m in a chamber. I won’t move from here, I won’t answer it. I won’t leave when my eyes are locked on him.

5

Jackson

As I pull up to the house, I notice his car is still in the driveway. That’s a good sign, I suppose. Blaine always holed himself up in the house when he was working on a new project. I suspect that’s what’s happening, because nothing looks out of the ordinary.

I take a moment before I get out of the car. I hope Blaine doesn’t think I have an ulterior motive. When we broke up, he was so fragile, which makes me sound like a douchebag, like I’m bragging about it. I’m not. He really was messed up in the weeks leading up to it, and a week after, which was the last time I spoke to him.

Sam was right. I also haven’t heard from him in about three weeks. I was hoping it was a sign of him moving on, but I know him. Blaine takes an infinite amount of time to get over anything. He becomes enthralled, wrapped up, and consumed. He is not a subtle person. It’s all or nothing, full throttle, heart on his sleeve, emotions forward, hopeless romantic.

These aren’t bad qualities, but they can be overwhelming, especially with his high expectations and the level at which he feels them. He’s admitted this, so it’s not me being an asshole. I loved his personality at times, but it was also suffocating. He wasn’t healthy.

When I was away, he would text and call me obsessively. He waited on my every word. It felt like he wouldn’t live his life unless I was there or I was talking to him. We lasted almost a year, and I thought it would get better as he gained some confidence, settled into our relationship, and relaxed. He never did. He needed to work on himself.

I did too—I’m not a saint, clearly. I’m still sitting in my car being a shitty person. I could’ve been more vulnerable with him, showed him more empathy, and done the little things that he needed to prove I loved him. But in the end, my efforts were never enough for him, and his needs overwhelmed my abilities.

I’ve got to get out of this fucking car and go check on him. It won’t be bad. Stop pretending like you’re someone to obsess over. I have to tell myself this in order to get the nerve to do what I came here for.

I pull my keys out of the ignition and open the car door. A drop of rain falls on my head. Spring always has a way of shifting the weather on a whim. It feels like an omen, like a sign. I don’t know how to explain it, but my gut sinks inside of me. Sometimes you can sense when something is off, like a strange electric energy is charging in the air around you—ready to strike.

6

Blaine

The knock comes again, like a beacon in the darkest wilds. I am awakened by the echo of someone at the door. There is an urge in me to ignore it, but I begin to wonder—what if it’s him? What if he’s back and I ignore his beckoning? I get up out of my sad stupor, remove the soured sheets from my body, and shuffle past the dishes and rough sketches littering every surface.

There have been better days. I beg for the best days to come back. I remember when the buds on the trees would bloom as we lay under them in the shade on the warm sunny days of spring. Those eternal moments of love—to be with him. He would smile and I would return the gesture, evoking a kiss that would turn into our bodies connecting all the invisible strings of the universe together. I miss being tied to him.

My feet paddle down the stairs as fast as they can. It feels like I’m gliding down gracefully, but I know how I look and feel. I am the furthest from grace I’ve ever been. I’m not floating, I’m flatlining.

Why am I this way when I’m alone? I can’t live my life when I’m consumed by him, but I want to be consumed by him. My life is a never-ending complex narrative that I can’t write down. But I can sculpt it into a statue. Yes, I can get out my grief and sink it into stone.

I open the door to see him standing before me like a dazzling mirage made real. The sweet, seductive scent of his cologne pulls me immediately back into his orbit. I miss revolving around him. I miss the centrality and certainty—I miss us, what we were. I want him again.

“Hey!” I hear the foolish optimism in my voice. He notices my happy tone, but he doesn’t mirror me in his look. Why is he here if not to be with me?

“Hey,” he says in his usual cool tone.

If I didn’t know him, I would think he’s being impassive on purpose. Maybe he is, but that’s Jackson. We’re so unalike in that way, but that’s what brings the balance that we need. I am passionate, he is ambivalent.

“I’m glad you’re here.” I say in a rush. I need him to know how I feel. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” he says.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” I laugh.

“What’s on your arms and legs?”

He points to the cast stone remnants that are splattered on my body. No matter how hard I scrubbed, it wouldn’t wash away. It was stuck to me like he was. I wonder if he’s trying to change the subject to delay what he would say next. We both knew where this was going, even if he was hesitant.

“My next masterpiece.”

He smiles, and the world narrows in to our conversation. I am intoxicated. As the poet Shirley Jackson once said, “the very air tastes like wine.” I want to drink in the light that is pouring over his silhouette and taste the ambrosia of his lips. I am starved for him.

“I wanted to say—”

“Yes?”

“Well.” He stares off to the side, looking like he wants to leave.“You know I’m not good at these things.”

“I know.” I knew it well. This was one of the reasons he left me. I am a wellspring of emotion and thought, ever flowing. He isn’t, he is withdrawn, a hidden reservoir. I knew that if I gave him enough time, it would come forth. And here it is.

“I shouldn’t have said those things to you. You deserve better. I should’ve paid more attention to you and showed you how much I wanted to be around you. Because I did, and I still do.” He gives me a look with those eyes, and I can’t help but leap into his arms.

“I’m so glad you’re back. I was going to go crazy without you.” I feel the connection again, the beauty, the light of the world—everything is right. I step back and look at his face.

“You would’ve been fine without me,” Jackson laughs.

I bathe in the sound he makes. The dissonance inside me ends and the tune of his laugh brings about a harmony I haven’t known since the very beginning of us.

“Jack, we both know I wouldn’t. I can’t live without you.” We both know this is true, but I had to let him know how I was feeling. I believe we were meant to be together, and nothing will chisel our bond to dust. I will hold on to him until the end, because I don’t know how to live without him. We are bound to each other. We are one.

“Let me get my things,” he says as he pulls away and heads toward his car. He’s coming back. No, he is back. I feel a leap in my soul. There is an abundance of joy radiating from me. My heart of stone has melted and I dance in the puddles of elation.

7

Jackson

I knocked for a solid minute, and there was no answer. I’m more worried than ever. Fuck. Something isn’t right with Blaine. This isn’t like him. I dash down the front steps and around the side of the house. I try to calm down and take a deep breath, to reassure myself that he’s okay. I need him to be okay.

From my vantage point in the backyard, I can see into the back room, which is Blaine’s art studio. The scent of distant rain is mingling with the sweet magnolia in the corner by the fence. I step closer until my face is almost against the windowpane.

In the dark room, I see a set of statues who are holding each other. At this angle, I can only make out one face, which is the exact image of my own. The other is obscured in shadow, but I know that it’s Blaine. Something about the scene startles me. If he’s truly become so possessed with us, or the idea of us, then God knows what he would do to himself when it ended.

Shit.

8

Blaine

I pull Jackson inside as quick as I can. He had wandered away for a minute to get his things, but he’s back in the house now. I don’t want him to go—not now, not ever again. He and I will be the last.

As I close the door, I ignore the hardened stone on my legs. Since I began work on the statues, the process has weighed me down. It made me slower; most of my lower half is numb now, but I won’t let it ruin me. I have earned this. I wanted this. Despite the heaviness of my encased body, I feel light as air. I am floating high above the clouds. This is heaven.

Jackson fills the home in an immeasurable way. His scent has returned and I linger in it. He places his possessions back on the shelves, hangs us back on the walls, and fills the closet and drawers. He wanders around the house and I follow. He whispers to me, and my body tingles. He really came back. I knew he would.

It feels like a slow motion blur, like the alignment of the planets after all this time, or the wish of turning back time come true. I am in awe.

“Want some coffee?” he asks.

It’s what he said to me once, in another lifetime. The glass shatters in my eye. I hear my phone buzzing in the distance—it won’t stop. He disappears for a moment.

“No! Come back,” I cry.

I have to bring myself back together, to keep plastering the walls within until I am solidified from the inside out. I must keep trudging around until it all sets in. If I can uphold this life, this reality, we will be perfectly fine. I run to the studio and begin the final phase of my work. I cover my face and arms hastily, and before it sets, I cover the back of my head. I pose with Jackson and my vision goes gray.

Suddenly, Jackson calls for me. I run toward the kitchen, where he’s standing in the doorway. He looks perfect, with his hair falling in just the right place.

“I made you some coffee. Let’s sit and chat,” he says tenderly.

I propel myself into his arms and breathe. Intertwined in him, I see him as he is and he sees me. We are not vapor and stone, we are the ideal. We are complete and whole. I look at my hands and they are flesh. I pull away and look at Jackson’s face and it’s flesh too. This is the way I wanted it. This is Elysium.

9

Jackson

I bang on the back door as I twist and pull on the doorknob, hoping it will unlock easily. With each unsuccessful click, I’m breaking down. Damnit. My concern is evolving into dread. I should’ve called the police when Blaine didn’t answer the door. I must have knocked a hundred times. Why isn’t he answering? What the hell is he doing? Answer the fucking door.

There’s one last option. I know Blaine leaves the window in his studio unlocked sometimes to let the air, birdsong, and inspiration inside. He loves his muses. I put my hands against the wooden frame and push up with all my strength. Slowly, the window slides up until it can’t anymore.

I pop out the screen and it clatters into the room, launching a plume of dust into the air. I push myself up and in through the window.

The studio is messy like always, tubs of clay, cement, and paint carelessly arranged on the floor. There are canvases in various stages of progression all along the walls and the statue of the two men against the furthest wall.

“Blaine?” I call into the stale air.

10

Blaine

I think of the time that’s gone by, days and days, endless hours, it seems. I feel like I’ve been sitting at this dining room table forever. I’m in the kitchen sitting across from Jackson, happily staring at him as he sips his coffee. He’s looking out the window at the willow swaying in the sweet breeze under the perpetual morning sun.

He presses his finger against the window to point out a strawberry finch sitting on our mailbox and singing a little melody. He is mesmerized by the small things, and I am mesmerized by him. I examine the little sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks, the peach fuzz growing on his face, and his eyes, which are especially bright now.

How did I get so lucky?

I reach across the table and grab his hand. He is surprised, but quickly holds on tight. He gazes into my eyes and it feels like the first time, like the stars aligned on that fateful day. It feels like we could stare at each other indefinitely.

“I love you,” he says.

I say it back and smile. This is what I’ve always wanted. This is where I want to stay. This is it. But for a moment, I get lost in my head. In the distance somewhere, maybe in the back of my mind or behind my heart, I hear a knock. It’s subtle, not audible. It seems devilish, like something is wrong, like nothing is as it seems.

“You okay?” Jackson cranes his neck to examine me further. He knows me, so he knows something is wrong with me. The moment is tender in an unexpected way.

“Yeah,” I smile. “I thought I heard someone knocking.”

“Knocking?” Jack asks with a little laugh. He lets go of my hand, leans back in his chair and gives me a wide grin—the way he would when he thought I was being silly. “There’s no one else here but us.”

“Just the way I like it,” I say with a slightly nervous laugh. I remember for a second the severe, cold, and painful alone—the brutal hours of the night. The way my heart and lungs and head felt like a heavy weight, a millstone ready to sink into the sea. The heaviness now feels gentle, like it crept up on me.

“Together forever,” Jackson says as he grabs hold of my hand.

I feel a spark of joy before noticing my hands are covered in plaster. I quickly look at my reflection in the window and see that every part of me is stone. I am covered in a wet, white film. The plaster is dripping from hands and running down my face from the top of my head. All that is left is the light in my eyes and the light in my eyes is Jackson.

This didn’t creep up on me, the cementing of the world as I wanted it—I crafted it. It has finally come, what I hoped for, for so long. He has returned, and he’s here with me in our own carved-out space in this world. I have made the dream real.

Another sound echoes around me; someone is calling my name. I look behind me as if it was there. I search for the source. I close my eyes to find it.

Jackson pats my hand and whispers something. I miss what he says and when I open my eyes, I no longer see my hands of stone—I only see him.

“What did you say?” I ask.

The light has fully illuminated his face. He’s glowing like the sun. I’m nearly consumed by the image of him, but I hear that voice again. It sounds exactly like him, but it can’t be him. He’s here with me, and I’m here with him.

I feel pressure pressing all around. I feel locked in this place.

“Let’s stay here. Together forever, just you and me.” He smiles with a thrill of hope and promise.

I agree. Whatever happens to me, I am set.

So here we are. We will remain, always. We won’t depart, we can’t.. I am happy, and I imagine I’ll be this way forever. I close my eyes and let myself drift into the blissful oblivion that I have made. I am secured within these stone walls. Our smiles are everlasting as we stare into these eternal eyes. We are the carved image of the past, the best part of my life. We are the perfect simulacrum of what was.

11

Jackson

When I call his name, there’s no immediate answer, just an echo across the artwork. I hastily walk forward and trip over the window screen that I pushed in earlier. Shit. I look at the bare feet of the statues before allowing my eyes to go up their legs, torsos, and to their faces. My assumption was right, it’s me and Blaine. His arms are on my shoulders, mine are around his waist, and we’re looking at each other, our bodies interlaced. We look happy. He set our happiness in stone, but he forgot all the bad in between.

There’s something too real about the statue. It’s uncanny. Yes, it looks like me, but Blaine’s image looks—otherworldly. It’s like his eyes are glowing. I don’t know how he did it. There’s another thing strange about it. The part that looks like me is smooth and has clean lines, but Blaine looks messy and unfinished. His arms are gloppy, like a child made it. It’s a mess. There’s a sort of crack at the back of his head. He was probably rushing to finish it before he disappeared.

Somehow, though, he captured himself completely. He created something realer than his other work. He always saw me as perfect, but maybe Blaine finally realized how he was when we were together—messy, disastrous, and obsessed.

Why the hell am I staring at this statue when I should be looking for him?

“Blaine?” I scream again as I collect myself and head for the door, watching the statue out of the corner of my eye to make sure it doesn’t somehow come alive. I feel like I’m the one going insane.

I open the door to the rest of the house and walk out into the hallway. Everything looks dirty and kinda shitty. It’s been neglected. I wonder what he looks like now; did he neglect himself too? There are dirty dishes sprinkled in various places, sketch pads littered across the floor like his notebooks were ripped apart, and a smell that makes me want to throw up.

“Blaine, where the hell are you?” My voice croaks as I try to shout, but only a faint noise comes out. I’m panicking. It looks like he’s in some sort of manic episode or something. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Where is he?

The kitchen reeks of rotting food, the window shades are drawn shut, and the whole house has a film of dust that seems to indicate inactivity. Everything is wrong, every turn makes my hair stand on edge. It feels like I’m wandering through endless hallways and corridors of destruction. This isn’t—no, it wasn’t—our home.

I run to check every corner of the house. I save the bedroom for last. If he’s anywhere, it would be there, but there’s no trace of him. The bed is sloppily made, the nightstand drawer is open, and sketches are hung on the wall like they’re decor. He was here recently, I guess, but he isn’t here anymore.

How long has it been since he’s been gone? Did I just miss him, or did he disappear a while ago? The questions compress my mind until I can’t see straight. Dammit. He’s not here, and he’s not okay.

I sit on the bed and the dust swirls in the beams of light streaming in from the windows. I breathe and smell the staleness of the house. For the first time, I feel my emotions swell and the tears come. I can’t imagine what he went through or where he’s gone. I can’t think of him alone here. Shit.

I collect myself and decide I shouldn’t be here anymore, not without notifying the police and his sister. I have to be the one to make the call, and I fucking hate that. I hate all of this.

As I leave, I notice the content of the sketches. They were drawn with a heavy black pencil, almost in a chaotic way, but they all came together to make an image. I think I remember the day. My arms are around his waist, his on my shoulders, our bodies intertwined, and we’re looking into each other’s eyes. It’s more intimate than I recall. It was right before our big fight, the one that brought our relationship to an end.

Maybe that was the last moment of happiness for him. Maybe I fucked him up. I want to take the sketch of us, just to have something, but I know I’ll have to leave it until the police investigate. I don’t want them to think it was my fault he went missing—but maybe it was.

As I make my way back through the house, I feel the weight of my self-reflection. I was awful to him. I know I pushed him away over time. I told him he was too much for me to handle, and I was selfish. I’m an asshole, and I regret being that way to him, even if I don’t think we would’ve lasted in the long run. I should’ve been better.

It’s all too much for me, and that makes me feel shitty because this shouldn’t be about how I feel right now. Blaine is missing. I’m almost at the front door. Once I’m out of the house, I’ll make the calls. I’m going to lose it when I hear his sister cry. I’m going to lose it.

Before I leave, I make a connection that wasn’t there before. The sketch hanging in the bedroom is a replica of the statue of us—or maybe it’s the other way around. I head back to his studio, knowing I shouldn’t linger here, but knowing I have to go there one more time. All the other details are blurry. I’m sure I’m missing something, maybe a sign or a note that would prove he’s alright. But I’m only focused on looking at the statue.

I approach it cautiously, like it would spring to life any moment, or as if Blaine would walk back in and catch me searching the house. I wish that would happen. At least I would know he’s alive.

I stare at the work of art. There’s a particular way about it. I can’t even fucking describe it because I’m so stupid with this stuff, but there’s something there. It’s his eyes. They don’t feel like stone or cement or whatever this thing is made out of—they feel real, almost human. It’s like he made his own eyes otherworldly; he reached beyond space and time and made something tangible, something lifelike. Damn, maybe this is what he was always talking about. I know art can imitate life, but I didn’t know it could exalt and expound on it. Shit.

My eyes wander down to a rough inscription etched in the stone. Blaine always inscribed one in his own handwriting before covering it up with a placard. The unfinished piece was entitled The Image of Us. Below, in rougher letters, was the phrase What Was Is Now Forever.

A gut-wrenching feeling hits me, combines with a surge of urgency, and forces me to stumble back. I grab my phone from my pocket as fast as I can and dial 911. As the phone rings, I start to cry again. Holy fuck, he’s really gone.