Yohan's Diary [BL] 5

I’m still hunched over in the doctor’s office chair, trying to breathe through the wreckage inside me, when my phone buzzes.

Matthew

For a second, I think about ignoring it. But I swipe anyway.

Matthew Kingston

I went home

His voice says, smooth and casual, like nothing’s happened between us.

Matthew Kingston

I took your finished painting.

Yohan Victor

*I freeze* What?

Matthew Kingston

Ellin needs to submit a piece to the gallery. Since you’re just painting for fun, I thought—why not let her use it?

My mouth opens, but no words come out.

Matthew Kingston

I’ll send you money for it

He adds, like that’s supposed to fix everything.

I grip the phone tighter.

Yohan Victor

That was my painting. My work. My hours. And you’re giving it away as if it’s yours to—

Matthew Kingston

It’s just a painting, Yohan *he interrupts, almost impatient*

Matthew Kingston

Ellin is your sister. Stop being so selfish.

My chest goes cold. Sister. That’s what he calls her. The same woman whose face I just saw pressed against his on a rooftop.

The same woman who walked into my childhood home and took my family from me without lifting a finger.

Yohan Victor

I don’t agree

My voice shaking with something between rage and disbelief.

Matthew Kingston

I’ll give you the money

Matthew says, as if the matter’s settled.

I can’t even speak anymore. Not because I have nothing to say, but because if I start, I don’t know if I’ll stop. And he’ll never understand.

In my lap, my hands are trembling—not from the cancer, not from the divorce, but from the sheer absurdity that this man… this man I once loved… can still find new ways to strip me of what’s mine.

I rush home, the hospital’s white corridors still clinging to my skin. The house is too quiet when I unlock the door—too still, like it’s holding its breath.

My steps quicken toward the small studio where I keep my canvases.

The sight hits me like a punch.

Three of my paintings are gone.

Not just any pieces—one of them is the painting. The one I’d been working on for months. The one I was supposed to submit for my master gallery auction, my one real chance to be recognized.

My knees feel weak. My eyes blur. I stand in the middle of the room, my chest heaving, staring at the empty spaces on the wall where my art should be.

It’s like everything has been ripped from me, piece by piece, and all I’ve been able to do is watch.

First my marriage. Then my dignity. Now the work that kept me breathing when life felt impossible.

My heart hammers against my ribs. My breaths come too fast, too shallow. The walls feel closer, pressing in.

Yohan Victor

Breathe, Yohan.

But I can’t. The fury, the grief, the betrayal—it tangles in my chest until it burns. My vision swims.

A sharp taste fills my mouth. I cough—and dark red splatters the floor. My hands shake as I touch my lips.

Blood

My body folds in on itself. The room tilts, my knees hit the floor, and the last thing I see before darkness takes me is the corner of an unfinished canvas… the one I swore I’d finish for myself.

TBC