Life looks different through the eyes of an indigo child - she's creative, she's spontaneous, and she lives in her own little world.


4. Magnum Opus

"I can't do this anymore, Angie!" Drew tells me, exasperation in his voice.

My mouth falls open like I'm shocked, but his aura's been spiky for weeks. I knew something was up.

He continues without waiting for a response. "You're're so...self-centered! You know that?"

"Self-centered? What do you mean? Do you want me to be less confident? Are you trying to bring me down?" I bite out, my voice rising into the high place it goes when I'm upset.

"You know I've been nothing but supportive of your art," he says slowly, like he's trying to control himself. "But you're not giving me anything. You just want me around to prop you up, which, frankly, is the last thing you need."

Now I truly am shocked. I've never heard Drew angry with anyone before. I had no idea he had it in him. At the same time, I need to focus on what he's saying so I can figure out how to convince him it's not true. It can't be. Things were great between us, right? Until today?

"Drew, that's isn't like that!"

"Oh, it's not? Angela, you have never once said anything about my music, which is as important to me as your painting is to you!"

That's hard to argue with. I guess I always thought since he was so quiet, he didn't want to talk about himself. It's a bad sign that he's calling me by my full name. I'd been thrilled when he started calling me Angie. Only my family calls me that. Only the people who love me.

"Look," he continues. He's obviously rehearsed all of this in his head. It sounds cold and clinical despite the fire in his tone. "I think it's great that you're so creative, that you're intuitive, you're an indigo." He says the word almost mockingly, and I feel tears rising in my eyes.


"But you don't care about anyone other than yourself! I can't keep pretending I'm okay with that. I have a life too, you know."

"I know-"

"I'm leaving."

Without another word, he swings his backpack onto his shoulder, picks up his guitar by the neck, and stomps out of my bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

I don't hesitate - I turn towards the canvas waiting on my easel and scoop up every shade of purple paint I can find in my collection. Methodically, I squeeze the entire contents of each tube onto my palette, my knuckles white. By the time I'm done, there's a small mountain of paint on the palette, a Neapolitan blend of all the colors in Drew's aura.

Bypassing a paintbrush, I dip my fingers into the paint, then draw a jagged diagonal line across the canvas. Finally, this one will be a masterpiece. 

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