I handed her my phone and, after exchanging numbers, we said our goodbyes. As I walked down the star-lit road towards the cottage, I felt a comforting sense of belonging. It was strange how, in just two days, Hallow’s End already felt more like home than Cresden ever had. Maybe it was Ivy’s warmth and openness, or perhaps the charm of small-town life itself. Either way, the simplicity and kindness here were a refreshing change.
Looking up at the twinkling stars, a rush of possibility washed over me. The idea of dating again made me a little nervous—was I ready? But there was something about being in Hallow’s End that made me feel brave and free. I wanted to see Ethan again, and Ivy was right; it was just coffee, and that was a good place to start. Baby steps, I thought, smiling to myself.
Chapter 7
SUNLIGHT FILTERED THROUGH the windows of my cottage, illuminating the art supplies scattered across the floor—paint tubes, brushes, and sketchbooks forming a chaotic circle around me. Yesterday, after the phone call with my mother, I had been on a roll, brimming with confidence and ready to embrace my dreams. The idea of staying in Hallow’s End felt not only possible, but right.
But today, I woke up feeling like my old self again. The confidence I’d felt yesterday seemed to have evaporated overnight, leaving me uncertain and questioning my choices all over again. Was I really brave enough to follow through with my dreams? To stay in this small town, away from everything I knew, and carve out a new life for myself?
I sat on the floor, gazing at the empty easel before me. Normally, painting was my escape, and the one thing that always made sense. It grounded me,gave me clarity. But now, as I stared at the untouched canvas, my mind felt as blank as its surface.
I tried to focus on the positive aspects of my new life. I thought about my blossoming friendship with Ivy, the potential art gallery that could be mine, and even the possibility of dating Ethan. It was a beautiful dream—a fresh start, a new chapter filled with creativity and genuine connections. But my thoughts kept drifting back to Cresden and, inevitably, to Sebastian. The small voice in my head was relentless, mocking me with doubts:It’s a nice dream, Vinnie, but it’s just a dream. You won’t make it a reality.
I struggled to silence that voice, trying to remember the way Ethan’s golden eyes had lit up when I talked about my art. He seemed genuinely interested in me and what I was passionate about. But then, my thoughts would circle back to Sebastian, and how he never really cared for my art. While Ethan’s encouragement felt refreshing, it also highlighted the lack of support I’d experienced in my past relationship.
Even as I felt a flutter of excitement thinking about Ethan, there was still a heaviness in my chest from the unresolved feelings surrounding Sebastian. The memories of him were tangled up with the doubts that plagued me. No matter how much I wanted to move on, the wounds from my breakup were still raw. As much as I longed for a new beginning, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the past was still holding me back.
The bright red paint dripped from the paintbrush I had picked up, splattering onto the white shirt I was wearing. It was Sebastian’s shirt—one of the few remnants of our relationship I couldn’t let go of. Even now, it still carried the faintest hint of his cologne, a bittersweet reminder of what we once had. The familiar scent was like a mocking echo, reminding me of the comfort and affection I used to find in his arms, now just a hollow memory.
I groaned and put the paintbrush down, closing my eyes. Normally, the smell of paint would spark a creative fire in me, a rush of inspiration. But today, the fumes, mingling with his lingering scent, felt overwhelming, like they were closing in on me. I opened my eyes, determined not to let these feelings of doubt and regret paralyze me. Art had always been my way to work through emotions too complex to voice.
Picking up the brush again, I dipped it back into the red paint and made a bold, harsh line across the canvas, but it didn’t feel right. My thoughts drifted back to the city, where inspiration had always flowed effortlessly. The bustling streets, the ever-changing skyline, and the vibrant energy of Cresden all served as fuel for my creativity. The constant noise and movements were like a symphony that guided my brush. But here in Hallow’s End, everything felt too quiet, too stagnant. The tranquillity I had longed for now seemed to stifle my imagination.
Feeling a surge of frustration, I ripped the canvas from the easel and tossed it aside. The usual bold strokes and bright colors just weren’t speaking to me—they felt wrong, jarring. I picked up a fresh canvas, determined to try something new, and my eyes fell on a box of paints I hadn’t touched in years. The soft pastel tubes sat in neat, untouched rows. They’d never appealed to me before but, today, they seemed to call out. The colors looked soothing, offering a gentle alternative to my usual intensity.
I picked up a fresh palette and squeezed out the pastel hues, watching as the soft pinks, blues, and greens pooled together.This is right, a quiet voice inside me whispered, and a small smile played on my lips as I picked up a clean brush and dipped it into the paint. I tried capturing Hallow’s End’s tranquil beauty—its charm and silent moments, so different from the chaos of my old life.
This fresh approach to my art felt like a way to leave Cresden behind, to forget about the noise and pressure that had suffocated me. But, despiteHallow’s End’s charm and beauty, every time I tried to capture its essence on canvas, it didn’t work. My attempts to translate the quaint town into art fell flat. The simplicity of this place seemed to drain the colors from my mind, leaving me with a palette of dull shades, and I couldn’t understand why it wasn’t coming together. The frustration built up inside me, gnawing at my confidence.
Frustrated by my failed attempts to paint from memory—something I’d always excelled at in college—I turned my attention to the scenery outside the cottage window, hoping it would help.
The towering pines swayed gently in the breeze, their deep green needles catching the light like tiny emeralds. Each tree had a unique shape, with branches reaching out like gnarled fingers. The forest floor was a mix of rich browns and muted golds, with fallen leaves scattered among the roots, creating a patchwork of textures.
Beyond the forest, the majestic mountains stood tall, their rugged peaks dusted with the first snow of the season. The snow glistened in the sunlight, a blend of icy whites and soft blues that contrasted beautifully with the darker, shadowed crevices. Mist capped the mountains, adding a dreamlike quality to the scene.
I swiped the brush across the canvas, determined on capturing it. But the stroke felt devoid of any feeling, flat and uninspired. Frustrated, I wiped it away and tried again, and again, each attempt more disheartening than the last. Every time I put brush to canvas, it felt flat, lifeless. The tranquillity of Hallow’s End, which should have been a muse, instead felt like a shroud, muting the colours and energy that I longed to express. The creativity that used to flow effortlessly from my hands now felt foreign, wrong, like trying to play an instrument with someone else’s hands.
My frustration grew with every failed attempt, the serene landscape taunting me with its unyielding calmness. It was as if my art was stillanchored to the urban frenzy, and I didn’t know how to tap into this new, tranquil landscape.
My mind began to wander back to Cresden and Sebastian. He was chaotic and unpredictable, and often the spark behind my most inspired works. His solution to everything was spontaneous nights out with friends, filled with drinking, laughter, and mischief. The thrill of those moments, the rush of being swept up in his energy, had often served as my muse. Since the breakup, I hadn’t truly painted anything that felt alive. Admitting that, even to myself, was a fear I wasn’t ready to face.
The notion ate away at me, a painful reminder that without him, my artistic endeavors might never be the same again. Our breakup had been a shock to Sebastian, a decision that had taken me weeks to muster the courage for. It wasn’t just the chaotic nights out that had fuelled my art; it was also the instability and uncertainty of our relationship.
Sebastian was a master of mixed signals—one moment, he was all in, making grand gestures and declarations of love. The next, he was distant, and he thrived on spontaneity, which often left me feeling unsteady and unsure of where we stood.
Then there was the constant pressure to fit into his world. Sebastian thrived in the high-energy circles of Cresden’s elite, always rubbing elbows with people who could never understand me or my passion for art. I often felt like an accessory, a background character in his larger-than-life story. Our lives revolved around his social calendar, leaving little room for my own interests and needs.
The final straw came one night when he drunkenly confessed that he saw my art asjust a silly hobbyhe entertained in hopes I would eventually outgrow it. It was clear he envisioned me following in my mother’s footsteps, hosting dinners and attending charity events, all while abandoning my passion for art.
The first few weeks after the breakup were the hardest. Sebastian had been so integrated into every part of my life that it felt like I couldn’t escape him. Both of our families immediately sided with him, conveniently overlooking the real issues. They made endless excuses for his behavior, andaccidentallyorchestrated situations where we’d end up at the same events, all under the guise of giving him a chance to talk to me. It was stressful and exhausting. All I wanted was to mourn our relationship and begin healing, but I couldn’t. Despite Cresden being a big city, it was suffocating, like there was nowhere to hide.
Sometimes, even I doubted my decision to break up. There were moments when I questioned if I had been too hasty, if perhaps I had exaggerated the issues. The good times we shared—the laughter, the spontaneous adventures, the way he could make everything seem exciting—those memories were hard to shake. They clouded my judgment, making me second-guess whether I had made the right choice.
On top of that, there was the looming shadow of my parents’ expectations. I knew they were disappointed, seeing Sebastian as the perfect partner for their vision of my future. They wanted the seamless blending of two influential families and the stability that came with it. Letting them down added another layer of guilt, making me question if I had been selfish in pursuing what I wanted instead of what was expected.
As these thoughts raced through my mind, I found myself absentmindedly stroking a brush against the canvas, the bristles barely touching the surface. The paint was smeared in soft, meaningless lines, more an expression of my scattered thoughts than any actual attempt at creating art.
Hallow’s End was supposed to be a refuge, a place where I could find clarity and maybe even a fresh start. Yet, here I was, still haunted by the past, my thoughts circling back to Cresden and the life I’d left behind.
