Allo people! so let me tell you what's up... If no one reviews idk if i'll continue the story, so tell me what you think, that'll help me a lot.

I DO NOT OWN IB!

I hold the brush in my hand, sturdy but gracefully. The details are sharp, but non realistic. I dip the tip of the brush in a puddle of paint, the color of navy blue. I outline a blue rose, slowly wilting away. It has already lost most of its petals and is ready to die, but strains to hold onto life. It is being held by a man with royal blue hair, bangs casting over his left eye. Black thorn vines twisting around him. His eye is looking at the flower, with a sad smile that could make any girl melt. Once I finish the detail, I step back and look at the painting while wiping the sweat off my forehead. I smile with satisfaction, until I become curious as to why I painted him...again.

I have painted this exact man probably one hundred times since I came home from the art exhibit i went to when I was nine. There was a painting there that really caught my attention..."Forgotten Portrait" I believe it was? I don't know why i was so captivated by it, all I know is that painting aspired me to become a better artist. Now I'm seventeen and still remember that painting perfectly. I sigh and clean up my art supplies before resting for the night. After I finish, and as soon as I lay down to rest, my mother calls out.

"Ib, dinner time!" I groan aching all over, especially my arms. I was at that painting all day before I finally took a breath. I sit up and walk downstairs.

"What's for dinner...?" I ask subtly before washing my hands and take a seat.

"Steak and potatoes, with spinach." My dad says setting the plate of food in front of me. I smile and start eating.

"Thank you dad." I say pleased.

"Your welcome honey. Say, why don't you ever invite your friends over for dinner?" he asked setting the pan in the sink.

"Yeah, Ib, we don't bite." She pointed out jokingly.I hated talking about friends. Everyone in school has never liked me. They always thought I was creepy and morbid. I never had the courage to tell my parents I didn't have any, they probably thought I was the most popular girl in school with their imaginations.

"Well, they're always so busy with there family, and we have nothing to do here. So I didn't want to bother them." I lie taking a sip of water. I didn't even want to make friends with anyone at school. They were always stuck up, immature, and loud. I suppose the only friend I have ever had was him, the man I have painted for eight years. He was quiet and beautiful, yet sad and lonely, like a wilting flower. He understood me in a way no one else could. Now don't think I'm mad. i know he's a painting. But it's no different than an owner talking to his dog about his problems, right?

"Hmm, well that's too bad, you could of shown them your paintings." Mom says, not knowing the situation. That's the last thing those would want.

After dinner, I wash the dishes and quickly go upstairs. It was only 9:15 and I was done for the day. I layed down in my bed and, just before shutting my lamp off, glimpse at the sleeping man in locked behind a canvas.

Alright that was chapter one (obviously) hope you guys liked it. c: Remember to review!