Nothing comes to mind, I can’t think of anything. I have to have something soon, but there’s just nothing. 

“You okay?”

I heard her voice.

“I’m fine, I’m just thinking.”

I still have a few days left, there’s still enough time to finish it. 

“What was the theme for the contest again? It started with an H, I believe?”

“Happiness”

“Well when I think of happiness, I remember the time when I was still a child playing in the grass. I remember those times fondly, those happy times. Maybe something similar to that?”

I guess there is no harm in trying it. I chose a more rococo flair to the piece. I start with the grass, ever so green. The brightness of the shade blended smoothly with that of the rays of light that fell onto it. Then I gave the children clothing befitting to that of a doll, bright and colorful. Lastly, the smiles, as big as ever, are bright and centered as they run along the green grass. Soon enough the image was completed. Yet something felt missing.

“It looks amazing! I think you have the winning piece!”

No, something is definitely missing. It felt empty. It was filled with color, from corner to corner, yet I felt nothing from it. The smiles, their teeth, were as white as the moon, yet empty. Their eyes were not filled with joy. They were filled with paint.

“No, this will not suffice.”

“Well it is already past 5 and I must head home now. I do hope you find out whatever it is you wish to paint. Especially since you only have a few days left. Saturday, correct?”

Indeed, I only had four days left, yet had no progress whatsoever.

“Goodnight Emile! Also, please do not forget about the day after tomorrow.”

She left before I could say anything. I lay down, contemplating what to do. I have to finish this, I have to win this, no matter what. I cannot lose my everything, I cannot lose Eleanor.

As the time reaches 12, the middle of the day. Eleanor and I decided to head out today, meeting up at the local park. It was a particularly quiet day today, not many people other than the local elderly who feed the birds breadcrumbs. Eleanor prepared a picnic blanket and a basket filled with fruits. I had only brought an empty canvas and my equipment. She talked about her morning to me. Though I could not hear her properly as the lingering deadline was almost whispering to me, telling me to finish it. 

“I suppose you have not figured out a solution to your plight. Might I suggest another suggestion? Well you see, I seem to be enjoying my time right now. In fact, I would say I am currently feeling happiness. Why not paint that instead?”

It would not hurt to try once more. If this is what happiness truly is, then I must paint it as so. Once more, the green grass welcomed itself. New visitors too, that of the blue and serene lake and the tall oak trees that surrounded us. In the center lies the blanket we sat at, a checkered pattern of red and white. Following that would be the basket, filled with apples, grapes, orange slices, and assorted berries. Lastly, her flowing blue dress as she lay on the patterned blanket, her felt hat that shared the same palette as her clothes, and of course her face. Ever so beautiful as she elegantly smiled. It was a nice painting, beautiful even. 

“Is something wrong? I mean it looks wonderful so you should be proud of it.”

It was not right. It was not happiness. It was beautiful, but beauty is not what I was after.

“No, this will not suffice. I mean not to offend you, of course, it is beautiful, but it is not happiness.”

She fell silent, I felt awful for it, but deep down I truly believed it was not what I was looking for. We both fell silent for a bit, but soon enough she brought something up which lightened the mood. As we both cleaned up the mess we made, she looked at me with worry.

“You will be going tomorrow, right?”

“I have not.”

“There is nothing to worry about. My father is quite stoic, but once he gets to know you I am sure it will all go well.”

I had hoped to believe in her words, but they never worked. I had met her father once before, yet all I saw in his eyes was disappointment. Something I never felt before, as no eyes were upon me. We both left the park and soon went our separate ways. 

I must win, to prove him wrong, to prove everyone wrong, to show that I am worthy, for her.

I stood in front of the wretched door that I would consider my gates to hell. Ironic how within the gate lives a beautiful angel and a loathsome demon. I knock hoping for my savior to greet me, only to be met with my constant agony.

“That must be Emile! Please let him enter!”

The man in front of me begrudgingly made way for me to pass.

“..thank you.”

We sat at the dining table, Eleanor beside me and her father across. Her mother was busy today so she had to skip out on our lovely lunch meet-up, though I wished she had not. As we dined, I felt as if something was piercing my very skin. His gaze was locked towards me, that wretched gaze that haunts me in my sleep.

“So dad, Emile here is participating in a contest, when he wins, he gets millions I say! Millions! It is quite the prestigious event I must say.”

He did not reply, only eating his dish in silence. Though I can read his mind, it says “So what, he isn’t that great, he would never win.”

“Come on Dad, you don’t have to be such a bum. He is doing his best and as long as we support him, I’m sure he will win it!”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I enjoy Eleanor’s optimism, it was refreshing to hear something like that again.

“What a waste.” The demon finally spoke, and he soon too left the table, leaving his unfinished food.

“Sorry about that, I will go talk to him.” 

She too has left the table, leaving me dining alone. I wished it was silent, but it was not. I could hear them argue as the walls were too thin. I overheard the entire argument. I’m just a painter, I will never get anywhere, I am scrawny, I am weak. I even overheard a new name, Enrique. Though bringing up that name seemed to make things worse. I do not know of this man, yet I already understood why he was mentioned. I soon left the table as well, not to join their argument, but to run from it.

As I arrived back in the apartment that I call my home, I stared into the blank canvas on my workstation. I thought about the contest once more, about happiness. I tried to lift my brush to paint once more. Yet my hands would not move, nothing would move. I soon realized why. I cannot paint, not right now. Even though the sun was only setting, I lay on my bed. I did not contemplate the contest today, only the conversation that I overheard. My face was wet, but I was renewed. I must win, no matter what. For her.

Two more days left, I only had two. Time was running out, yet I still made no progress. The pressure of it all, it feels as if I was being crushed by it. My head is spinning, my body, aching, eyes blurry. I was even hungry and thirsty, for I had no time for such things. I need to paint. I paced around my room trying to think, but it only got worse. I had to lie down for a bit, I could not work in those conditions. Before I knew it, I fell asleep.

I knew this was a dream, yet it felt too real. It was eerily quiet, but it was peaceful. Beside me laid Eleanor. Resting on me with a blank expression. It all felt warm, I felt warm. It was a comfort that I had not felt for what felt like ages. I caught a whiff of her hair, that in which smelt like roses. It felt like I was in heaven. I would not even be surprised if the ignorance of my bodily needs led to my death; in fact, I welcome it! Maybe, finally, I found it. That which I would consider to be happiness. 

When I woke up, I ran straight to my workstation. Readied my canvas and that of my paintbrush and began to paint my dreams. That feeling of warmth gave the orange. The smell of the roses gave the red. The sun that shines ever so brightly gave the yellow. The sky up above gave the blue. The grass that once more appeared on my canvas gave the green. All these things blend and mix together, creating shades upon shades of color. It all felt nice, it all felt free. Once more have I completed the piece.

I finally opened my eyes. I saw what lay before me. My dream, captured within the moment. Colorful hues, yet all of them were soft on the eyes. It all blended together. It was magnificent. I believe it could even be considered my magnum opus. Never have I seen such a beautiful painting, created by me nonetheless. It was perfect. I believe I created the winning piece.

It does not suffice.

Something, deep inside me, is telling me. Telling me that this is not the piece. I have no doubts in my mind that if I were to submit this, it would truly win the contest. If I were to call this my painting, I would have proven to everyone that I was not a failure, that I am not weak, and that I can be something. I can be with Eleanor. 

My body says I must, but my head- No, my heart says the truth. This is not happiness. I would have to betray my very self if I were to submit this painting. I soon tore the piece to shreds, leaving only patches of color on the floor. It was the most visceral I have ever been. I tore so deep into the canvas, that I did not even notice someone outside my door.

“Emile?? Are you alright? Please open the door!”

I saw the mess I had made, everything was everywhere. I could not face Eleanor, but it was not because of the mess. She is already used to my messy living. Instead, it was fear that locked the door. As I could not show her my pathetic self. I never did.

The last day.

The final day.

I only had today.

I stare at the canvas. With my paintbrush in my hand. The mess of yesterday still lay flat on the floor. I never bothered to clean it. I was starving and dehydrated, but I never felt it. For only one thing was on my mind. To win that damned competition. That fucking competition. 

I was out of ideas, nothing comes to mind when I say the words happiness. I even tried spelling it. H. A. P. P. I. N. E. S. S. Yet nothing bore fruit.

I tried to reflect on the week. All the good, all the bad. What went wrong? All the times I spent with Eleanor, when we ate together, when we slept together, when we talked to each other. And now, all of it will be gone. Taken from me. Taken by that wretched man. Taken by the man I never met. Taken by everything. All stolen from me. My happiness was stolen from me. My Eleanor.

My Eleanor.

Eleanor.

I stood once more in front of my canvas, with a paintbrush in my hand. Staring into the white space. The blank canvas. I thought of Eleanor. I thought of the time we had together. The dates we had, her laughter, her smile, her everything. I remembered it all, all so clearly. 

Why have I not painted? I never moved my hand. The brush never touched the canvas. The painting was never painted. 

I could not bring myself to paint when nothing came to mind.

How foolish I was, to try and paint an emotion. To do that is to do the impossible. After all, you could never truly summarize a person.

It is over, I have given up. There was truly nothing left to paint. I simply submitted it. Nothing. I, for the last time, lay on my bed and fell asleep.

I have no plans of leaving this room anymore. I did not even attend the competition itself. My competitors will simply be competing against nothing. 

I soon slept through the day and the next. I heard faint knocks on my door but was too tired to even hear what was on the other side. I simply slept.

I awoke on Sunday. I brewed my morning coffee and saw that someone slipped the morning newspaper under my door. I did not bother to even pick it up though. I contemplated smoking but decided not to. As I finished my cup of coffee, a barrage of knocks were hurled at my door. When I opened it, I was pleasantly surprised to see her in front of me. She was out of breath as if she had run all the way here just to meet me.

“...Eleanor.”

“YOU WON!”

It seemed as if I was still asleep, so I tried to pinch my skin but was only met with a stinging pain.

“Your painting won the contest! I knew you could do it!”

She embraced me, one that I had missed oh so much. She even lifted me and spun me around as if I were a toy. It was nauseating but I gladly accepted it.

“How did I win? I submitted a blank canvas. That doesn’t seem right.”

“Apparently, many were enthralled by it, some people even shed tears when they looked at it. I do not understand much about the art world, but they definitely loved it.”

I was still in shock from the news. Surely my competitors at least came up with something better than nothing.

“Come on! Let’s go! They want to meet you!”

“Who?”

“My parents!”

I sat on the sofa, greeted by something so alien to me. Both of her parents smiling at me. Her mother was kind, but I always felt as if she was faking her kindness. Her father, I felt pure joy coming from him. His eyes, for the first time, did not send a piercing gaze of disappointment, instead, it was a gaze of pride. I look at Eleanor, her smile even brighter than ever. I believe that she is almost as shocked as I am. For the first time ever, have I eaten at that table feeling accepted. No arguments, no judgment, it was something I never felt before. Maybe, this is truly what happiness feels like.

When the day was over, Eleanor and I talked to each other. She looked tired but it was as if a burden was lifted off of her shoulders. A burden that was always there, pushing her down, now finally gone. As I went back to my apartment, I found that the painting had been sent back to me. It stands in front of the room.

I looked into the painting once more, the painting that saved my life. I stared deep into it. It was empty, it had nothing, it was a blank canvas. This nothingness saved me. 

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing saved me.

This canvas, colored white, was something that could have blended into a white wall and become completely invisible.

This blank canvas was empty, yet it felt as if I was ignoring something.

The more I stared at the canvas, the less I understood. It was hypnotizing. Mesmerizing.

I stared into this white abyss and what I found was not nothing, but instead, I found myself in a white room.

This blank canvas was never a canvas. It was a mirror, and the mirror only reflected what was in front of it. It reflected my dreams, my vision, my imagination. But it never reflected me, for I have never faced the mirror myself.

I could have never painted happiness, not because it was impossible, but because it was never there. 

I for once lifted my paintbrush, finally knowing where to move it.

I finally know what I must paint.

I finally know what happiness means.

You do not spell happiness with an A, a N, a G, an E, and a R, nor do you spell it with a F, an E, an A, and a R.

You spell it with a H, an A, two Ps, an I, a N, an E, and lastly, two S’.

And now for the first time ever.

I stared into the mirror.

And began to paint.