Eli
1
The gallery buzzed with well-dressed guests drifting from one piece to the next. Glasses clinked, laughter cut through quiet conversation, and warm light reflected off polished wooden floors. I leaned against the far wall, nursing a glass of wine. Another opening night. Another win.
People surrounded me. Admirers, critics, "friends" mostly here for the glamour and free drinks. They lingered near my latest photo series of abstract portraits capturing the raw beauty of London. Grime, chaos, and the untold stories etched in strangers' faces.
By all accounts, it was a success. The critics loved it. The gallery had already sold several pieces. Normally, this kind of validation lit me up.
But tonight felt off. I feigned interest in the compliments, but I wasn't really paying attention. The voices around me blended into a droning hum as I glanced at my phone. I still hadn't answered Rowan's text.
How's the gallery going? Hope it's a good night for you.
I sighed and slipped the phone back into my pocket. I'd message him later. Right now, my focus was supposed to be here.
I could already feel eyes on me, waiting for the next smile or clever line. I was a fixture in these circles now, and Iplayed the part well. But on nights like this, I was running on autopilot.
I tugged at my collar and glanced around the room. Rebecca stood in the far corner, holding court with a few gallery regulars. She was middle-aged, overly polished, and forever chasing some elusive elite status. And she always seemed to hover nearby. It was exhausting.
Her laughter cut through the room, and then she spotted me. Smiling with her champagne flute poised like an accessory, she made her way over with that practised elegance she tried a little too hard to sell. I stifled a groan.
"Elias, darling," she cooed, kissing my cheek. "You've done it again."
I forced a smile back. "Glad you think so."
Her eyes sparkled as she glanced over at my work. "The portraits are positively divine. Everyone's talking about them." Her perfume nearly overpowered me as she leaned in to brush my arm. "You must be thrilled."
"Of course." The words came automatically with the hope that she'd move on.
She didn't take the hint. Instead, she prattled on about the latest art world gossip. I nodded and spoke when I needed to, but I tuned her out as much as I could get away with. I should've felt more satisfaction. These were my photos, after all. Months of work, countless hours chasing light and shadow across the city. Each one had a unique story.
But as I stood there, I just felt tired. Tired of what exactly, I didn't know. I just didn't have the energy to be here.
Rebecca's voice cut through the din. "You should come to dinner with me and a few friends this weekend. We're doing a little thing at my place in Chelsea. Just a small crowd."
"Sure. Sounds nice."
She smiled, apparently satisfied with my half-hearted answer. "Great. I'll send your manager the details."
As she floated off to the next group of guests, I exhaled slowly, hoping my relief didn't show. I'd done it again. I'd given just enough to keep people happy and keep things moving.
But I intended to find an excuse to avoid that party.
My phone buzzed. Nadia's name and a short text flashed on the screen:Can we talk tonight?
I already knew what that meant. She'd been hinting for weeks that she wanted more from me. She wasn't the first to ask, and she wouldn't be the last.
I replied quickly:Sure. Be there soon.
The night was winding down, anyway, and the idea of staying in that gallery didn't appeal to me. I said my goodbyes, offered a few last smiles and handshakes, and stepped out into the night.
The gallery's hum faded behind me as I walked. London felt different at night. The streets were quieter, less frantic, more alive in a way I could never quite explain. This city was my muse, my home, my escape. But even in all its chaos, I still felt alone.
On the way to Nadia's flat, my thoughts wandered to the pattern my life had fallen into. Success. Admiration. Fleeting connections. I was always chasing something. The next project, the next person. But nothing ever stuck. Something was always missing.
My last few relationships had all started great. Exciting and full of promise. But the spark never lasted. They always fizzled out and left me right back where I started.
I wasn't a bad person. I wasn't cold or callous or careless. I wanted to connect with people. I wanted something real. But when it came down to it, I could never feel the way they needed me to.
