The Prodigy Series

The room was silent since everyone was giving their full focus to what they were presently doing. Wyatt, Candice, Ava, Xander and I were all sitting at the dining table. Xander, Wyatt, and Candice were using their gadgets, while Ava and I were sketching away on our drawing pads.

While I was drawing I would look over at Ava who was sitting beside me. I would gaze at her work from time to time, observing her progress. She was doing a floral pattern design in pencil color. Candice, on the other hand, was sitting at the far end of the table with her headphones on, and she was probably watching one of her cartoons.

"I feel like dying," Ava joked when the tip of her coloring pencil broke for the third time in ten minutes. She chuckled, picking up the sharpener she'd placed by her side to remedy the situation before she continued coloring. Wyatt and Xander had looked up from their phones briefly at her words, but they looked away when they saw nothing was wrong.

It was late in the evening, and the day seemed to be passing by slowly, or maybe it was partly because it had been on Friday Toby had broken down in front of me, and I haven't been able to see him since then. It was Saturday now, but my mind was still swimming with worry.

I was brought out of my thoughts by a yawn from Wyatt. He muttered a quick apology when he noticed that half the table had looked up at him. He then returned his attention to his phone. Wyatt was probably talking to his friends — or maybe Ji-Hun, judging from the signature smile he had on his face.

After a while, people started to get up and leave the dining room. The first to leave was Ava, then Candice and finally Xander, leaving just Wyatt and me alone at the dining table.

"Wyatt," I eventually spoke up, watching as he looked up from his phone to give me a confused look.

"What?"

I shrugged, not having a specific reason to why I'd called him. Maybe the silence had been too much for me, or maybe I just wanted someone to talk to — someone to give me some advice. "Nothing really. How are you?" I ended up saying, adding the last part and hoping that he'd pick up the conversation and not let it die.

"I'm doing fine. I'm going to watch a movie with Aiyana tomorrow. How about you? How's life been?" he asked, briefly looking down at his phone screen to type something before he looked up at me again.

"There was someone you wanted to talk to, right? Have you spoken to them?" he asked, making my face warm up at the question.

"I guess — somewhat," I responded, making him frown at me a bit.

"Somewhat?" he asked, his frown deepening with his words. I shrugged, not knowing how to explain what I meant.

"We're talking, but I don't know... I can't get them to tell me things, and I don't want to ask directly because I don't want to sound nosy," I said. "I don't even want to know for the sake of knowing. I want to help, and maybe feel like I'm trusted by them."

"You can't force someone to tell you things..."

"I'm not trying to do that," I said, cutting Wyatt off out of frustration. "I don't know... I just want him to open up to me so that I can help him, you know?"

"Him?" Wyatt said, as if asking a question while ignoring the rest of my sentence. I frowned a bit at him, a little irritated by his reaction.

"Yes, him. I like Toby. I like my former art teacher. There, I've said it. Now that that's out of the way, can you help me?" I asked, making him look at me with a stunned look on his face. I wasn't sure if it was because of the information, or if it was because I'd snapped at him.

"Okay, sorry, and yes," Wyatt mumbled all at once, running a hand through his hair as he looked away. "What do you need help with exactly?" he asked, stirring the conversation back on track.

I shrugged. "I don't know, you're the one in the relationship. I guess I just want him to be more open with me so that I can help him more, if that makes sense."

"Oh, then my advice from before still stands. Don't pressure him to tell you things — it's tempting, and you might think all your trying to do is help, but it doesn't. It might even make things worse," Wyatt said, looking straight at me with brown eyes that mirrored mine. I c.o.c.ked my head to the side, thinking about what he'd said before nodding.

"What you can do, however, is show that you're available to talk — kind of subtly signal to them that you're there if they want to talk to someone," Wyatt said, picking up his phone again. "A simple 'Hello, how are you doing?' can really make a big difference. Check up on them, but don't overwhelm them or force them to tell you things."

"Okay. I think I understand that," I muttered, biting my bottom lip. "Thanks."

"It's no problem," Wyatt said, before giving me a look that seemed like he was about to ask me something.

"Never mind," he muttered in a low tone, shaking his head before returning his attention to his phone. The silence that followed was a signal that the conversation was over, so I got up and left the dining table before heading up to my room. When I got there, I shut the door as my mind processed Wyatt's advice.

Would it be okay if I texted him now? I asked myself, dropping my drawing pad on my study table before searching for my phone. My room was the opposite of Wyatt's. instead of being arranged and tidy, it was a mess, and I couldn't figure out where anything was unless I conducted a full-on search. I eventually found my phone, and I picked it up before heading to sit on the side of my bed.

Unlocking my phone screen, I headed to the messaging app but paused and just stared at the input section with Toby's name above it. What should I say? I wondered, feeling a bit weird about what I was about to do.

ME:

Hey, how are you?

7:45 PM.

I eventually sent. I bit my bottom lip, looking at the text before adding something else.

ME:

I hope you had a nice day.

7:46 PM.

I was about to put my phone away when the sound meaning that I'd gotten a reply made my eyes go wide with shock. I hadn't expected that.

TOBY:

I'm doing okay. I spent most of today cleaning out my storage. How are you?

7: 47 PM.

My heart was beating rapidly against my c.h.e.s.t, and I wasn't sure what to do or how to reply to his text.

ME:

Oh.

Typing...

That sounds good.

Typing...

And I'm doing fine.

7:48 PM.

I eventually ended up sending. I knew it was a bad reply, but I had nothing better to say. After a while Toby sent me a series of pictures, and my brow rose up in interest when I noticed that they were paintings.

TOBY:

Those are portraits of Brendan. I'm putting them away with some other stuff.

7:50 PM.

I found myself enlarging the pictures after that, opening them up in my phone's gallery app for a better view. The man in the painting had ginger red hair and blue-green eyes — he was handsome, but something I caught from the details in the painting was that he looked a lot older than Toby — somewhere in his mid or late forties if I guessed correctly.

ME:

Oh.

They're well done.

7:53 PM.

I ended up sending as a reply to Toby's message since I didn't want to make him uncomfortable by asking any of the questions that were swimming in my mind. I didn't get a reply from Toby immediately, and I started to get worried. The worry vanished when I got a notification ten minute later. The message had an image of a bottle of wine attached.

TOBY:

I'm going to enjoy the rest of the night drinking this, I suppose. What are you up to?

8:03 PM.

ME:

I'm still working on my paintings, and I think I'll be spending some time on them later in the night. My mum's pulling an all night season for her last few pieces and I guess I might join her.

8:04 PM.

The conversation became a lot less awkward after that. We talked about painting, and the classes we were taking — there was no mention of Brendan or the paintings of him again. Toby eventually excused himself from the conversation, bidding me a good night. After replying to his message with a similar message, I put my phone away.

I sighed, realizing I now had a face and a name to the mystery professor that had hurt Toby so much, but I began to wonder why Toby had sent me the picture of those paintings in the first place if he hadn't wanted to talk about them. Maybe he was trying to let go of something? Was he finally willing to let me in — but slowly?

I shook my head, trying not to think about it too much.

"Be available to talk, but don't force him to," I muttered to myself in a low almost inaudible tone, as I tried my best to internalize Wyatt's advice.

I needed it, and I did need a reminder that I had to be delicate and considerate for his sake, well being and mental health.