Page 17 of How I Ruined Everything by Kissing My Roommate

I hesitated for half a second. Long enough to feel the familiar instinct to retreat. Short enough to ignore it.

“Yeah,” I said. “I just… can we stop somewhere first? There’s something I want to show you.”

She didn’t question it. She never did when my voice shifted like this. “Sure.”

Sophie quietly followed me to the studio. I turned the keys and slipped in, letting her inside. The studio was dark when we slipped inside, the city noise fading as the door closed behind us. Late-night exhaustion hung in the air, heavy but peaceful. This was my favorite hour—the one where the world stopped demanding things from me.

I turned on a single lamp.

Sophie took in the space slowly, like she understood she’d crossed into something private. Paint-stained floors. Canvases stacked against the walls. The quiet hum of unfinished thoughts.

“This is where you make everything,” she said softly. “Where you disappear to sometimes.”

“This is where I tell the truth,” I replied before I could stop myself.

I moved toward the back corner, my pulse steady but loud. I knew exactly which canvas I was reaching for. I always did.

The one I never showed.

The one that wasn’t meant to be understood—only survived.

I set it on the easel and stood there for a moment, my hands resting on the frame. No announcement. No explanation. Just the choice.

“I want to show you something, Sophie.” My words were low, and it felt raw to expose myself, but I had to do it. “Something I’ve been working on.”

Then I turned it around.

The painting was raw rupture—color split open, forms fractured beyond repair. Anger without apology. Hurt without resolution. Everything I’d locked away because it asked too much of anyone who saw it. It was the painting Sophie had accidentally seen before, but I’d completed it now. I wanted to show her the depth of my pain, the depth of my transformation.

Sophie went still, her eyes widening as she took it in.

“I finished it,” I said, trying to cover up the silence. “I thought you’d want to see it.”

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t soften her gaze.

She stayed.

After a long moment, she said quietly, “You told me you never show your art to anyone.”

I stared at the floor, my voice barely there. “I don’t.”

The words felt heavier than any confession I’d ever made. The gesture was a silent declaration: I love you. You mean a lot to me.

“But,” I added, breath uneven, “you’re special.”

The silence that followed was vast and tender.

Sophie stepped closer, her eyes moving from the painting to my face like she was connecting pieces that had always belonged together.

“It’s beautiful,” she said gently. “I know nothing about art, but I know what you’ve been though, Iris. This painting isn’t just about hurt. It’s about being erased and then being reborn from the ashes of your past. Thank you for showing this to me.”

My chest cracked open. Sophie had gotten me on a level nobody else had. She’d looked at my painting and seen my soul.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

She closed the distance between us and wrapped her arms around me, holding on with everything she had left. The hug wasn’t romantic. It was urgent. Honest. A quiet collapse into safety.

I hugged her back, one arm firm around my roommate’s shoulders, as hers smoothed through my hair, slow and grounding.