“Yeah,” I whisper, eyes meeting his. “You already have.”
EPILOGUE
One Year Later
The gallery’s already crowded when we arrive, people clustered around wine tables and walking the perimeter of the space, admiring the showcased art. I tug at the hem of my dress, nerves causing a knot to settle heavy in my stomach.
I stand across from a charcoal drawing, eyeing it precariously. My name’s on the plaque beneath it.
Sophie Wilson
Featured Artist
“Fragments of Becoming”
That alone should send me spiraling, but I’m oddly calm. My brain has decided on giving me some peace today. This is a huge moment for me, my first art show, and I’m soaking it all in.
I hear my name and turn. A young woman in a hot pink blazer grabs my hand with both of hers and calls my work “raw” and “achingly tender”.
I smile and nod, whispering a quick “thank you” in the soft, even tone I’ve learned from watching Theo survive small talk. She drifts off to refill her wine.
Theo slips up beside me a second later, a crooked grin on his face, two cups of sparkling cider in his grasp. “You disappeared on me,” he says, pressing one into my hand.
“I needed air,” I murmur, though we’re very much still inside.
He leans in a little. “I amsoproud of you, Trouble.”
I glance up at him, letting the word settle in my chest. “This just feels so surreal.”
“It is surreal,” he says. “You’re a big time artist now. You have your drawings up in an art gallery.”
“Don’t push it, I’m still just a student.” I elbow him lightly, but he catches my hand and laces our fingers together, squeezing tight. His thumb brushes my knuckles once, his hand feeling steady and strong in mine.
We find a bench tucked in the corner, mostly blocked by a student sculpture. I kick off my shoes with a sigh, and he chuckles and pulls me closer.
He nods toward my charcoal drawing of a girl standing on the edge of a rooftop across the room. “You hung that one.”
“Yeah,” I pause. “Didn’t think I would, honestly. It still makes my stomach twist when I look at it too long.”
He doesn’t need to ask why. He knows.
“I remember the night you made it,” he says quietly. “You didn’t say a word for hours. Just sat on the floor with that sketchpad and let the emotions pour out of you.”
I glance down at my drink, then back at the piece. “It felt like the only way I could vent. Art gives me that safe space.”
He nods. “It shows. In the best way.”
I shake my head. “I almost didn’t bring it. I thought it was too raw. Charged with too much emotion to share with the world.”
Theo turns to me, his voice steady. “It’s real. And you’re allowed to take up space with the truth.”
That catches me off guard a little. I don’t say anything rightaway, I just reach out, slide my fingers through his, and squeeze once.
“Thanks for always knowing what to say,” I whisper, voice soft.
He bumps his shoulder against mine, a smile ghosting his lips. “I just know you, Trouble.”
My throat tightens, but I don’t look away.
