I set down cup number seven as I stared ahead.
After Lana left last week, our conversation was all I could think about.
Truthfully, I thought she was just saying it because she knew it was what I wanted to hear. That things would be better one day, and all I had to do was wait. But the more her words became my morning rituals, the more I realised that the girl I was was gone; I appreciated it. In fact, it was clear that if I waswaiting for my life to be perfect again to let myself do what I loved, then I’d never paint again.
And so, I sat with it. I didn’t do anything for the first few days. But eventually, I lifted the brush. It was hard, but with time I did it. Then I chose my colours, and I painted, and painted, and painted. And now I was staring at my final piece for the Nouvelle gala.
And I don’t know why, but as I stepped back, the back of my hand covered my mouth, my face scrunched, and I began to cry.
It’s beautiful, if I do say so myself.
It was like if Monet’sWater Lilieshad the opposite colour palette. Except instead of water lilies, I chose magnolias, for no other reason than they made me happy.
They’ll probably say it’s too much. Too loud, too jarring, too wrong for a subject like florals. But that was the point. I didn’t want soft greens and tranquil blues. I wanted contradiction. I wanted the chaos.
The pond in my painting burned, not with fire, but with colour. Oranges bleeding into red like something scorched. The magnolia petals pulsed with an electric blue, like they were never meant to grow here, and yet somehow they bloomed anyway. The water doesn’t reflect the sky, it rejects it. It cuts across the surface in jagged strokes of teal and violet, fractured and wild.
It shouldn’t have worked. None of it should.
But somehow, it did.
Because broken things could still be beautiful. Still hold space. Still survive.
And if you think I’m wrong, then just look at me.
I stared at the painting a moment longer, the silence around me like those blankets that runners get after finishing a marathon. My tears eventually stopped flowing. Part of me thought it was more due to exhaustion than actually finishing a painting. Maybe it was a healthy mix of both.
Regardless, it made me flop down onto my bed, paint smeared across my hands, my clothes. And just as my stinging eyes finally closed, there was a knock on the front door.
I would have ignored it had the others been home. But alas, they weren’t. Couldn’t tell you where. Now that classes had started and everyone was in love with everyone, it was hard to keep track. But I knew from the silence that I was the only one here.
My eyes slowly pried themselves open, and I sighed one big sigh before aching up and dragging my body down the stairs. It took me three stomps to reach the door and open it, prepared to death glare whoever had impolitely disturbed the 0.5 seconds of sleep I’d had in twenty-four hours.
Only no one was there.
I peered left and right, staring at Marcus’ door, then down at the empty steps.
Weird.
I looked around again, but this time, as my eyes dipped, I found a box. It was a small, white rectangular box, tied with a lilac silk ribbon and a card tucked underneath the tie. I pickedit up, not thinking about how it could have literally been anything, and took it inside.
I went back up to my room and sat down on the bed, placing the thing on my lap.
My fingers picked at the bow.
“If this explodes, I swear to God…” I muttered under my breath, squeezing my eyes closed until the ribbon was off.
The card fell into my lap, and I opened it, reading the words inked onto it, and feeling like an idiot as my smile grew.
Curiosity nipped at my fingertips, and I didn’t waste another second before lifting the lid. After peeling back the layers of tissue paper, I found it. Inside was a mask, the kind people used to wear to masquerade balls. It was probably the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life. Delicate ivory and soft lilac, dusted with glittering gold swirls and lined in rich violet. Regal. Feminine. Beautiful in that curated, intentional way, ornate but not loud, sharp around the eyes but soft around the edges.
As pretty as it was, why I had it was a mystery. But underneath, at the very bottom of the box, was another note. Andas I read it, stars danced in the corners of my eyes, every word making me want to pinch myself harder.
Seeing his name made the tension in my shoulders melt away. And as much as I wanted to roll my eyes, I didn’t. And even if I did, it wouldn’t be in a bad way. It would be fuelled by nothing but giddiness and the sheer disbelief that maybe… he’d asked me out.
Me. Marcus Romano had askedmeout. Via handwritten note.
Maybe I had fallen asleep.
