We move through the gallery after that, but it’s not a tour. There’s a nervous energy thrumming through me — I know we’ll eventually reach the corner where my own work hangs, and the thought of her seeing those pieces, of showing her that part of myself, is both terrifying and exhilarating. But for now, I let myself get lost in this, in sharing what I see with someone who actually understands.
I find myself stopping in front of a black-and-white photo of a bustling train station.
“This one,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. “Look. The photographer used a slow shutter speed, so the crowd is just a blur… ghosts of motion.” I trace a line in the air. “But the woman on the bench is perfectly sharp. It’s like the whole world is rushing past, but she’s caught in a single, quiet moment.”
I expect a nod, maybe an appreciative “hmm.” Instead, she steps closer, near enough that I can catch the faint scent of her shampoo — something floral. Her voice is soft. “She’s not waiting for a train. She’s waiting for her life to start again.”
I turn to look at her, my breath catching. She sees it. Not just the technique, but the story. We walk to the next wall, our shoulders almost brushing, and I’m hyperaware of the small space between us. I point to a stark portrait. “And this one… the way the light hits only one side of his face—”
“So you don’t know if he’s stepping into the light or retreating into the shadow,” she finishes, her eyes locked on the image. “It’s the whole story, right there. The indecision.”
She turns to look at me as she says it, and my heart does something complicated in my chest.
I’m sharing a piece of my soul, the part of me that sees the world in frames and f-stops. And she gets it. She sees not just the image, but the story behind it. She’s not just looking; she’s reading. And I’m completely captivated.
We come to a small, unassuming corner of the gallery - the section dedicated to local artists. My heart starts to pound a heavy, nervous rhythm against my ribs. My own work is on this wall. Three small, black-and-white prints that feel more revealing than any bare-chested photo shoot I’ve ever done.
“I, uh, have a few pieces in this section,” I say, my voice suddenly feeling rough and uncertain. I’ve never felt this vulnerable, this exposed.
I lead her to my photos, my hands shoved deep in my pockets.
I show her the first one: an old man sitting alone on a park bench, his face a roadmap of wrinkles. “I spent an entire afternoon talking to him,” I tell her. “He was a veteran who had just lost his wife of sixty years. He said he was just waiting, but he couldn’t remember for what.”
The next photo is a rain-slicked city street at midnight, the neon lights bleeding into puddles on the empty sidewalk. “This one is about that specific kind of loneliness you only feel in a huge city. The feeling of being completely surrounded by people, but still being invisible.”
I pause before the last one, a close-up of a child’s small hands held open to catch fat drops of falling rain. “And this,” I say, my voice softer, “is about the opposite. It’s about finding that simple, uncomplicated joy. The kind of magic you find in a summer storm before you learn you’re supposed to come in out of the rain.”
She’s quiet for a long time, her gaze moving from one photo to the next. I hold my breath, waiting for her verdict. This is more terrifying than any casting call. I’m not just showing her my art. I’m showing her myself.
“They’re so… honest,” she finally says, her voice filled with a quiet awe. She turns to me, her eyes shining with a genuine, unfeigned admiration. “They’re beautiful, Wyatt. Truly.”
The simple praise is the most profound compliment I have ever received. It’s not about my looks, my body, my job. It’s about my soul. And in that moment, I think I might be falling in love with her. The realization doesn’t crash over me like a wave — it settles in quietly, like it’s been there all along, waiting for me to notice.
We find a small, out-of-the-way bench in a quieter part of the gallery, away from the main flow of traffic. The adrenaline of the tour fades, leaving a comfortable, intimate silence between us.We sit, not touching, but the space between us is charged with a new energy, a new understanding.
“Why don’t you do this full-time?” she asks, her voice soft. “You’re incredibly talented.”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “The golden handcuffs,” I say. “The modeling pays the bills. Photography… not so much. Not yet, anyway. But that’s the plan. The exit strategy. I’m saving up to open my own gallery. A place where I can tell my own stories, and help other people tell theirs.”
“The revolution,” she says, a small, knowing smile on her face.
“Exactly,” I say. “Want to tell me more about yours?”
She hesitates for a moment, her gaze dropping to her hands. “I was in a cage for a long time,” she says, her voice quiet but clear. “A beautiful, expensive, suffocating cage. I’m just… trying to remember who I was before that. And figure out who I want to be now.”
She doesn’t mention her husband by name, but I can feel the weight of his presence in her words. I can feel the pain and the courage and the fierce, quiet determination of a woman reclaiming her own life. And I have an overwhelming urge to reach out, to take her hand, to promise her that not all men build cages.
Some of us want to see you fly.
Instead, I reach out, my movement slow and deliberate, and gently brush a stray strand of hair from her cheek. The touch is electric, a jolt of pure, unadulterated connection that makes my breath catch in my throat. Her skin is as soft as I imagined.
The conversation dies down. We’re just looking at each other, the unspoken things, the hopes and the fears and the fragile, budding possibility between us, hanging in the quiet air. I see her breath hitch, her lips part slightly.
I know I shouldn’t. We said friends. She set that boundary clearly, and I promised to respect it. But the way she’s looking at me right now, the way her eyes have gone soft and vulnerable, the barely perceptible way she’s leaning toward me — it doesn’t feel like friendship. It feels like something more. Something that terrifies and exhilarates me in equal measure.
I lean in, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, to remind me of our agreement, to tell me it’s too soon, to put up the wall I know she keeps at the ready.
She doesn’t. She meets me halfway, her eyes fluttering closed, a silent, beautiful surrender.
