Their shadowed gaze swings to the painting at my side, and for some reason, I feel like I’ve met this person before. Trying to shake off the sensation, I study my painting too. It’s so close to being done. Just a few more brushstrokes to go.
For a few moments, we don’t speak, and my heart continues to race as I rattle off a mental list of people this stranger could be: the emo kid I saw on my first day here, the grunge-chic girl that lives on the first floor, or—my pulse kicks into overdrive—the scowling guy from class. Sudden panic seizes me.
“Amazing,” the stranger breathes, and immediately the oxygen returns to the too-thin air around us. There’s no way the scowling guy, who I now know is named Remi, would compliment my work. His and his friends’ nasty comments on my social media posts this past week have made that abundantly clear.
“Thanks,” I say as my pulse levels out. “I’ve been working on it non-stop for the past few days.”
“It shows. It’s stunning.”
That word again. My blood heats, warming my cool, tingling skin as I flush.
“You don’t think it’s a bit much?” I ask, deciding to trust this unusually kind stranger.
“Yes.” My neck twinges from the sheer force of my gaze seeking theirs. “But that’s what makes it so daring.”
A shaky laugh passes my lips as I, discreetly as possible, rub the back of my aching neck. “You scared me there for a second.”
“The more important question is, doyouthink it’s too much?”
I return my gaze to my work, giving the question space to take root and grow. “No,” I finally decide. “It’s just enough.”
“Then you’ve determined the only opinion that matters.”
The stranger takes a few more steps toward me. Half of their body is now illuminated by soft, bronze light. They’re wearing black sweatpants with sneakers and an oversized hoodie the color of freshly fallen snow, the hood thrown up over their shaggy, midnight hair. The dark, wavy tendrils dance haphazardly around their eyebrows in the breeze. They’re wearing a facial covering over their nose and mouth, and I notice theirone illuminated eye is jade green, almost glowing in the ever-dimming light.
My stomach somersaults as that same peculiar sense of familiarity rings out in my chest again, but much louder this time, booming like a bell tower. Subconsciously, I grip the edges of my seat for support.
There’s no way. But—the mask. The white hoodie. The glowing eye. That angular jaw.
All of it screams...Phantom. I’ve watched them enough over the years to know.
I chuckle, but it comes out all wrong, warped and jittery. “I wish it were that easy.”
Keep your cool. Keep your cool. Keep your goddamn cool!
The stranger tilts their head, tossing the shadowed half of their face further into darkness. “Life might not be, but art is.”
“I might have to disagree with you there.”
“Why?” they ask, their luminescent eye roving over my face.
A shiver cascades down my spine, making me sit up straighter on my stool. “Well, without the opinion of your viewers, how do you know if your art is any good?”
Finding shelter from the cold in their hoodie pocket, the stranger’s long, pale hands disappear from view as they counter, “Do you think your art only has value if others like it?”
“Well, yes. Um—I mean, no.” My attention drops to the buttery, polished wood of the paintbrush as I roll it between my fingers, a likely fruitless attempt at hiding the color now attacking my cheeks. “Perhaps a bit of both.”
The stranger remains silent, so I continue, my breaths coming more quickly, “For example, with this painting, I chose a non-traditional setting for its background simply because I wanted to. I knewIwould like it. But... now that it’s finished, I have to admit, I’m nervous how others will perceive it.” I swallowhard. “That’s why I asked you, a total stranger—no offense—for your opinion.”
I make a mental note to give myself a swift kick in the ass later.Why on earth did I just say that? I’m way too flustered. If this stranger really is Phantom, getting their opinion on my work would be a dream come true.
“No offense taken,” the stranger says quietly. They sound closer than they did before. “But I get that. Art is conflict as much as it is freedom. Sometimes it feels impossible to separate your own expectations from the expectations of those around you.”
“Exactly,” I murmur. “Imposter syndrome’s a bitch.”
When I turn back to them, they’re standing right behind me. It’s then that I appreciate their face fully. Their facial covering is black, with a single, white-lined smiley face printed on the front, like an emoji. Even covered by the mask, the sharp contour of their cheekbones stands out. The printed smile is in direct contrast to their deeply sorrowful eyes; one seafoam green and one cobalt blue.
They’re beautiful... or handsome—no, they’re both, in equal measure.
