A Hue of Blu: the unforgettable love story

by Marie-France Léger

Sometimes two people, completely opposite and far apart were tied by an invisible chord. No one could see it but the people inside the knot. That knot was too hard to break, so we didn’t break it. We let it tighten around us, we let it shape us, until we morphed into someone new. Someone better. Someone Blu.

It sounded dramatic, but when you had nothing, the people you gave yourself to filled the void that was left stripped and barren.

Pain became happiness. Happiness became pain. Pain became comfort, and that comfort was bliss.

I wanted nothing more than to be loved. I deserved it. The world owed me.

“Why are you so invested in this guy, Blu? You’ve known him for a month,” Carter questioned. A damn good question at that.

stepped towards Controlling Chaos. Every line, every swirl, every sharp edge didn’t touch the red dot. This hue of red was an impenetrable forcefield, protecting him from the outside world. The outside pain. In that moment, all I could do was pray and wonder . . . Will I ever find a hue of Blu?

Maybe I was a painting, but she could be a museum.

Blu and me, we were never steady. She made me confident, she brought me comfort, but she messed with my head. Just when I thought things were going well, they weren’t. When I thought we were making progress, we took two steps back. And the sad truth was, I still felt like I knew nothing about her. Nothing, but everything all at once.

You could be the greatest person, perform the grandest gestures, but if that someone never valued the love you showed them in the first place, they never would.

Jealousy and admiration. Two different things. Somehow, that never clicked to me, never registered. Did I admire Morris? Danny? Max? Or was I always pining for what they had, envious of the things they possessed when I didn’t possess them? Did that make me a better man, that I became what they were? Or a worse one? Jealousy and admiration. Huh. Something to think about.

After all, when you liked someone, everything they did became attractive. Nothing could put you off, nothing could shift the pedestal you placed them on. That was the problem. That was always my problem.

Useless. Tethered to a burning desire of proving I was worth it. And seeing Bryce walk towards the cabin alone, hands in his pockets with his head hung low, I realized I wasn’t worth it. Not even a little bit.

Maybe that’s why I became who I became. Because nice people never got very far. And once upon a time, I was too nice, and life never rewarded me. It spat in my face.

She looked like a shooting star. She looked gorgeous. She looked mine.

This is what I loved about her. The push and pull. She took it and gave it. Fire.

my world orbited around the three people sitting at this table. In this moment, they were what mattered.

True. Clue. Flew. Hue.

A broken shell. A damaged past. Unlovable, reckless, Beatrice Louise Henderson.

That’s all anyone knew how to give. An excuse to leave, an excuse to run. No one stayed. No one cared.

Any ounce of love within me died, but it was justified. How could anyone love a fractured soul? A sad girl who couldn’t control the carnage of emotions that lived within her?

Carter was right. Fawn was right. I knew nothing about Jace Boland, other than the truth I knew about everyone else. They’d always leave.

Blu was sorry that she opened up to me, sorry that she burdened me, when all I could see when I looked into those brown eyes was a girl who wanted to be loved. I couldn’t love her. I didn’t know how to love myself.

“When I couldn’t be what she needed.” Maybe what she wanted. Not what she deserved.

Somehow, I got used to her company, used to her pursuits. I wanted her around. I craved that attention. It made me feel worth it, desired – Lovable.

“You two seem so similar but don’t want to admit it. That maybe, you both orbit around each other – a hue of something.”

Whether I let her go of her or not, she’d always be my Blu.

The pressure I carried to be the girl he wanted was overwhelming and unattainable. I’d broken every part of me trying to fit into that pretty, perfect mould. I’d lost sight of who I was just so he could glance in my direction for one second – because that one second was my heroin. And he watched me overdose.

She left. Only her eyes said goodbye. Oh Blu . . . What have I done?

I was finally going to Paris. Nothing. I didn’t need to worry about school. Nothing. Jace and I were never going to see each other again. Everything.

It was exhausting to chase after someone who never wanted you from the start. It was even more exhausting to pretend that there was a chance in hell you could change their mind. “Honestly Jace . . . ” How real was I getting? Screw it. “You fucked me over,” I started, bleeding into the pain I felt for months. “You fucked me up. And yet, you come back every time. Why? Why do you insist on doing this to me?” His response may have been the most honest thing he’s ever said, and that terrified me. In one breath, he shattered my soul. “You let me.”

It stung unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It burned me harder than most heartbreaks. I couldn’t explain why, what it was about him. I mourned the loss of losing him before he was even gone. All the impulsive parts of me that’d ruled my brain for years and years begged me to turn around, to run into his arms and dissect his meaning of love. But instead I wrapped my fingers around the cold handle and met his eyes one final time. “Promises never meant much to you, Jace.”

No more going back. No more hue. No more hue.

“Are we saying goodbye?” I asked softly, staring at the grey-tiled floor covered in glitter. With his final touch, his fingers gently lifted my chin to face him – forcing me to see that he was crushed, crushed like me. His voice broke as he said, “Maybe next time.”

The one where he didn’t care, or the one where he cared too much. Either way he wasn’t worth it. He’s not worth it. He’s not worth it. He’s not worth it. But you know who was? Me. I was worth it. I was worth it. I am worth it.

You are worth it, Blu Henderson. Love, Beatrice.

He . . . He cared. He cared.

“It was an honest mistake,” I defended, placing a wounded hand over my heart. “How was I supposed to know I couldn’t take a photo of a photo?” “A painting isn’t a photo, Blu,” he wiped a teary eye, snorting in amusement. “It’s art.” “A photo can’t be art?” “A painting and a photograph are different.”

“You always look pretty, darling.” Darling. Darling. DARLING.

“Because if you touch me, I’ll be okay. I’ll know you’re still in there – that . . . ” He turned to me, his eyes bloodshot and glazed, “That one year later, you still have love for me.”

He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t contact me. He abandoned me, and now – Now, he wished for me to have love for him.

I loved him viciously, my entire being stripped raw by his essence. I would’ve done anything for him; he knew that. He took advantage of that. And he still continued to do so. To play on my emotions. To see if I would run back all to boost his ego. One. Year. Later.

blinking away the flashbacks of Jace from last week. The panic attack I had on my bathroom floor. The cuts I almost made. Almost.

“Because I thought I healed,” I admitted, turning away from the mirror to my left. My thoughts unintentionally wavered to him. My comfort. My pain.

How I’d travelled to three different places across the world and still wound up back in the same position that I was last year. Fake growth. Fake healing. I’d wasted three hundred and sixty-five days chasing a fake dream of being fake happy. Fake. Fake. Fake.

Impossible. Unrealistic. But it was the world we lived in. Experience = Success.

There was little room to grow because you were expected to be grown, to be mature – to erase any part of you that was incompetent.

everyone was so disinteresting nowadays. Everyone except Blu.

Because she was the muse, the model, the mould of perfection. Front row, glimmering like a star. But I wanted the moon, the night sky and everything Blu(e).

I didn’t want the end result, I wanted the rough draft, the outlines, the Blu(e)prints.

We could do us again. But she ran. And I died. Four months later – I was still dying.