I do not know whether or not I ship Imogeli, but here it is.

Dedicated to my lovely friend, Nina. (ViolatedImogeli/MunroCArmy on Twitter). I always keep my promises.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN DEGRASSI

The Painting of Hope

She sketches his face, every outline precise and sharp. His face is vividly etched in her brain. She has pinpointed every crevice and hollow in his face, expressive details bringing the picture alive.

A smile spreads across her features as she examines her work. An emotion stirs within her soul; a warm, fuzzy feeling accompanying it. She had found that such an emotion could only be provoked on such rare occasions as this. And when it did, nothing else could dim it—for quite a while, actually.

It was pride.

Imogen was not one to openly express herself to others. But with art, it was different. When she was drawing, an inner peace calmed her and stilled everything else. Art didn't judge people; it inspired people. One couldn't make mistakes in art because it was simply impossible to create flaws. A tiny blemish could turn into the most beautiful painting; if one diminished their "mistake", it would never have the chance to become the magnificent work it was deemed to be.

Satisfied, she quickly scribbled her signature on the bottom-right hand corner and began packing away her supplies.

She paused for a moment and glanced at her surroundings.

It was not an art studio, but rather a private sanctuary of her own. From the outside, one could assume it to be a dilapidated shack. But to Imogen, it was much more than that. Because in her eyes, it was not just a dusty, old cabin. To Imogen, it was a place where her thoughts and feelings could escape onto canvas. This "shack" was a place—the only place—where she could fully be herself without anyone judging her. It was like a cleansing calm enveloped her when she arrived. All troubles were erased from her mind, even if it only was for a few moments. This was her safe haven, her home.

And no one could ever take a home away from her.

The cabin was not anything special. In fact, it was rather the opposite, what with the torn up wooden planks and the caving-in roof. It seemed to be randomly abandoned, as if it was left by a settler from God-knows-when. No one—not even hunters—came to the area, so it was well-concealed in the forest.

It was very fragile. The door was falling off its hinges, so Imogen had lied it down on the ground until she was ready to leave. Glaring stains coated the windows, and it soon became too disgusting for Imogen. Therefore, she began to keep a bottle of Windex under one of her canvases. And ever once in awhile, sawdust would begin to fall from the ceiling; it had begun to irritate her eyes to no end.

As she closed the door, she remembered something vital. Quickly, she dashed back inside and drew the night-black curtains. Then, she strung black cloths over all the canvases. Finally, she returned outside and placed a "No Trespassing" sign on the half-broken windowsill. Smiling, she walked away, completely assured that her home would be safe and secure for the night.

He silently watched her through the window. Smirking, he noticed how her eyebrows would form a V as she concentrated on each sketch-mark.

Eli hadn't intended to "spy" on Imogen. It just so happened that he stumbled upon the broken-down cabin as he was taking a calming stroll. His therapist—a woman that he despised with every ounce of his being—had recommended taking a relaxing walk everyday. Supposedly, it was in order to "restore some comfort" into his life. Nevertheless, he complied, only for the sake of not getting into any more trouble.

He didn't know what had compelled him to hide in a bush and watch Imogen sketching. It was something new to him as he followed her hand. It almost looked as if there was no effort required on her part to make such wonderful work; the movements seemed to be permanently choreographed in her blood.

He had always known that she was an artist, but he had never seen her work up-close before. It was alluring, inspiring even.

Eli loved her, but it was not the kind of love that one usually understands between a male and a female. He loved her like Jake loved Clare, yet there was a deeper element in his affections for Imogen. She was both a close friend and sister to him, yet also a mother, in some ways. He could trust her with his deepest, darkest secrets and she would listen patiently as the emotions tumbled off his tongue. But there was times when words would fail him and all he could ask for was comfort. Just a simple embrace could warm his heart and suddenly the world would seem much brighter than before.

She doesn't notice him and he smiles. Secrets were not entirely healthy for anyone, but he knew that this "visit" had to remain hidden within him. When she turns the interior of the cabin black, he can't help but quietly chuckle at the irony of it. Both the cabin and the distant observer sporting black? Quite a laughable factoid!

As she leaves, he briefly considers sneaking into the cabin. He's curious to see all the paintings she has completed. No, it would be wrong, and trespassing into a private bungalow was not one of his wisest ideas. He turns away and begins to walk back home. However, something stops him and he decides to chance it; curiosity was burning his insides.

Quietly, he opens the door, fearing that just the mere sound might immediately draw her back. To his surprise, it falls flatly on the ground, and it just so happened to land on top of his toe. He bites on his tongue in order to prevent the scream of pain that threatens to escape his voice box. After recovering (and setting the door quite a few feet away), he finally steps inside. Once he enters, the aroma of fresh, acrylic paint permeates the air, and it takes all of his willpower to keep his consumed lunch in his stomach. Once he regains some composure, Eli pats around the wall for a light switch. Cursing, he draws the curtains back and allows the remaining sunlight to stream through the windows. It takes him a few minutes to realize that there weren't any electricity sources in the cabin. Perhaps Imogen preferred to work with the sun's natural energy instead of wasting precious light-bulbs?

Stange…

Cautiously, he lifted a cloth and glanced at the painting. A dog—most likely a mutt—stood proudly on the canvas. His features were accentuated and precise: a lolling tongue hung out of his large jaw; tartar-stained teeth gleamed in a joyful smile; his black nose seemed to be glistening (a healthy sign); every flap and fold of his ears had been deeply etched; ping-pong-ball-sized orbs reflected a gleeful light, almost as if he was waiting for his owner to toss him his favorite toy.; a ray of light seemed to be streaming in from the northwest, and the dog's shadow was darkened on the floor.

Quickly covering it up, Eli moved on to view the rest of the canvases. As he maneuvered through the shack, he couldn't help but be mesmerized by the art. Each canvas held vivid paintings of life and exuberance; all of them displayed the artist's views of specific things in such a way that nothing else could ever compare. These works were truly masterpieces.

At last, Eli came to the canvas located in the back of the room. He had watched Imogen place her current project here. Before lifting the cloth, however, he briefly contemplated the thought of leaving once again. He had absolutely no right to barge into this private hut of hers just to feed his curiosity. Yet, some natural instinct told him that this was a rational decision. Mentally bracing himself for the piece, he pulled off the cloth in a flourish and tossed it to the ground. As his eyes landed on the canvas, he gasped.

At first, Eli had believed it to be a mirror. However, after no mimicked movements from his other adaptation were revealed, he realized that this was not the case. It was him; Eli was staring at a painting of himself. The boy in the picture did not appear…happy. All in all, he looked like a tornado had tossed him about in its endless swirl of debris and grime: dark bags sunk down his pale-green eyes; his skin was sallow and almost translucent if examined closely (the viewer could actually see tiny blue veins faintly outlined against his skin); a cold, mirthless laugh was etched onto his features; and the apparel was the drab, dull Degrassi uniform. It was a portrait of him…during the worst period of his life. The broodiness reflected in his features could only have been a result of the accursed anti-anxiety pills. Why would she depict that particular aspect of his life?

Suddenly, it became all too clear. The smiles, the laughs, the painting…It all made sense to him now as he pondered over it. When he had been at his worst, she had been at her best. Because—in those first few moments of their acquaintance—he had been under her command. He had been eating right of the palm of her hand, and she had secretly reveled in it. Not the way a convict would revel in breaking free from jail, but rather in comparison to a man reveling in the arrival of his newborn baby. She had felt the same emotion that the metaphorical father had felt when first holding his tiny bundle of joy, except hers were of a far more intimate manner.

It was love.

Though he hadn't really known whom she was sketching, deep down Eli had known it was going to be his face staring back at him on the canvas. His mind had not wanted to admit it, that was all. It was really just a psychological instinct that had been cruelly rejected by his conscious.

She was dating Fiona, yet she still loved him. Her infatuation had not just been a school-girl crush; she had loved him more than Eli cared to admit.

He felt sick. All this time…And how terribly he had treated her…

With the thoughts racing through his mind, Eli hastened to fit the cloth over the canvas. Before he could, however, he heard a tiny gasp. Silently cursing his stupidity—and lack of stealth—he turned around to be met by Imogen's large, fearful eyes.

"I forgot my bag…" She gestured to a black tote bag covered in multicolored paint splatters.

Without taking his gaze off of her, he reached down and handed the bag to her.

Muttering a brief "thanks", she took the bag. As she glanced at the floor, he saw her skin begin to redden.

Before he could process anything, she had raced into his arms and begun sobbing. Hesitantly, he patted her hair and whispered sweet nothings in her ear. Even though his shirt was getting wet, he felt relieved. They could talk things out, and things would become clearer and understandable. So he held her, rocking her back and forth just as she had done countless times before; it was now his turn to comfort her. Once she calmed down, he stated plainly to her,

"We need to talk."

Imogen hadn't meant to leave her bag behind, but she was glad she did. Though it was strange having Eli in her private property, she was grateful for his company. Talking with him had helped relieve some of her worries; he was a great listener and didn't complain once about the awkward situation.

The whole reason Imogen had started making art in her little villa was to escape from the world. Her shack was all hers, therefore finding someone else in it had been a bit odd—not to mention utterly embarrassing, as well. She had never expected that someone would barge in and view her multitude of works.

Imogen also knew that Eli was no idiot; clearly, he had figured out that the painting of him was inspired by her true feelings towards him. Sure, she was dating Fiona, but things with her had not turned out as expected. Fiona was too…ostentatious. Though it was to be expected that she would showcase her wealth, Imogen had never thought that it would escalate to an instinctive sense of superiority. On a daily basis, Fiona would complain about the "amateur" students' wardrobe choices. Even worse, she had even tried to change Imogen to her own liking.

"Come on, Immy, this dress will look fabulous on you!"

The dress was made of tangerine-crème silk. It had a bejeweled, modest V-neck. Layers upon layers of fabric flowed down from the waist. The hem was jaggedly cut and reached just below her knee.

The dress was not ugly in the slightest, yet Imogen despised it all the same. The frills were suffocating and there were too many sparkles for her liking. Despite Fiona's ramblings, Imogen did not think that it flattered her one bit. She looked too…girly…in it. And it didn't quite match her personality either.

Imogen's wardrobe was meticulously designed so that everything mismatched. The originality of it was what she loved the most. She didn't have to be like those glossy super-models in magazines. Her style was what made her unique. Even as a child, she had always been considered an "oddball". But it didn't matter, none of it did. Because—despite the popular girls always sneering at her and all the boys snickering—she was Imogen Moreno. Her style was expressive and different, which fitted her personality perfectly. Through her fashion, she could express herself without fearing what anyone would think. It was…refreshing, in the sense that clothing was at least one of the things that defined her.

So when Fiona had decided to change her…well, truth be told, it hurt her to no end. Therefore, with a heavy heart, she had requested that they would take a break. Both were saddened by it, but decided that it would be best for the time being.

Although Imogen and Fiona were steady again, she could not help thinking about her relationship—her first relationship, to be exact—with Eli. It had been enjoyable (for the most part), and she had never felt closer to him. He was unpredictable and dangerous; she had liked the combination. But when they broke up, it hadn't shattered her heart like she expected it to. She had never really loved him…

Or so she had originally thought.

Fiona had not been the person Imogen thought she was. More than once, she had longed for Eli's embrace. Being friends with him, it wasn't enough for her.

Art was the only way for her to dream, of anything, really. She could allow colors and expression to capture her emotions: brilliant flames of red and orange when she was angry or even a chilled, monochromatic blue when winter came around. No one could stop her from making art. It was a freedom.

And now, he was here, in her little shack. The place where she had sometimes dreamed he would find.

Perhaps dreams really do come true…

"I'm here for you, Imogen. No matter what."

His promise broke her out of her reverie, and soon everything within her burst into happiness. With the promise, her life was complete. She could even live with him as a friend forever, and it wouldn't bother her one bit.

"And theses paintings are fantastic, by the way." He smirks, a gleam of—could she be imagining it? Was it admiration?—brightened his eyes.

And suddenly, she sees something that makes her heart skip a beat. Most people would not have observed it like her keen eyes had. Butterflies flitted about in her stomach, and she felt an overwhelming euphoria flow through her. Because in that expression, he had provoked an emotion like no other:

Hope.

As she glanced around her "studio" (she might as well begin to call it a studio, anyway), Imogen could see a sparkling future ahead. So what if they weren't together? That could eventually change, right? This newfound hope inspired her.

An image of a couple sprouted into her mind. Their backs were turned to the observer, but all could see their intertwined hands. And she could tell that they looked as happy as could be.

Quickly snatching a sketch pad and a sharp pencil, she lets her nimble fingers take over. Art was a natural instinct; it ran through her blood. Once an idea came, everything had to be down on paper or canvas as quickly as possible. Almost like how it is a priority for a writer to scribble down ideas as they enter their mind.

With Eli watching, she spent the next few hours drawing the sketch. Once it was completed, she smiled at her work.

The boy and girl—the boy sporting a black t-shirt and denim jeans while the girl wore a cheetah-print sweater with neon-pink jeans—were staring off into the distance. They were in a widespread meadow. No one could disturb them, and their turned backs certainly showed that they would pay no mind to anyone but their companion. They were content in their own little world.

And in the expansive, spotless sky above them, a few wispy clouds formed one simple word:

Hope.

Not great, but certainly one of my best. Reviews would be lovely.