The late afternoon sunlight spills across the floor, golden and soft like honey over the worn wooden boards. I sit cross-legged at the coffee table, brush in hand, adding careful final strokes to a . My room smells of acrylics, paper, and that faint vanilla perfume I put on earlier.
My phone buzzes against the table—once, then again—but I ignore it for now. It's probably another promo message. Or advertisment. Or just a spam. Or maybe Felix being Felix.
After the lunch and the little drama happened at cafe, I don't want to open my phone. I'm sure Theo and Felix had crossed path before. Were they friends? Or ...? I sigh.
I glance at the unfinished commission projects in front of me. Most students use their free time to cram or binge-watch shows. I use it to work through my commissions, pick away at personal projects, and—if I'm being honest—occasionally lose myself in quiet, empty hours.
Living alone has taught me the delicate art of filling silence. Slow music. Painting. Daydreaming. Memories.
I rise from the chair and wander over to the bookshelf, fingertips trailing across familiar spines. Art history texts, sketching manuals, half-read novels ... and tucked into the corner, an old, battered sketchbook.
I pull it free and flip it open. The first page nearly punches the air from my lungs.
Pencil sketches—rough and raw—of faces that don't belong to anyone real. Boys with half-smiles, girls with hollow eyes. Imaginary houses with cracked windows and overgrown gardens.
A record of a world I used to dream about. A world I made up because the real one had so little softness to offer.
Growing up in a place that isn't home—where no one is yours and nothing is permanent—carves something sharp and lonely inside you. Even now, years later, some part of me still lives there. In a house that was big, but barely had quiet and free space.
I turn another page, heart heavy, when the front door bangs open and jolts me out of my haze.
"I'm hoooome!" Julia's voice crashes through the apartment like a thunderclap.
Quickly, I snap the sketchbook shut and shove it under a pile of magazines on the coffee table, burying that fragile part of myself before she can see it.
"Hey," I call back, forcing my voice light. "Do you bring snacks?"
"Obviously," Julia says proudly, lugging two heavy grocery bags onto the kitchen counter. "Survival essentials for the upcoming mid-semester torture."
I laugh and cross the room to help her unpack. She's bought the classics: instant noodles again, chocolate bars, chips, way too many sodas, and a giant bag of frozen dumplings. She should get a class about eating healthily.
"Planning to feed the whole building?" I tease, pulling out the dumplings.
Julia waves a hand airily. "Stress-eating is a communal activity."
I snort and keep unpacking. The late afternoon sunlight is turning more golden by the minute, and for a second, it almost feels like time slows down—this easy, messy domestic life with my best friend, the weight of the past tucked away somewhere quiet.
"You know," Julia says after a minute, tossing me a bag of cookies. "I've been thinking."
"Sounds dangerous," I deadpan.
She throws a cookie at my head. I catch it easily. "No, seriously," she insists, "midterms are coming up. Everything's about to get nuts. Maybe we should plan a chill day after exams? Like, a proper break before we spiral into the final project hell. Let's be nice to ourselves duh."
I nod slowly, opening the cookie bag. "That sounds ... smart. For once."
She flips me off playfully, then hops onto the counter, swinging her legs.
"But also," she adds with a sly look, "you've been having some interesting encounters lately."
I freeze mid-bite. "Encounters?"
"Ow, c'mon! Those attractive guys! Any updates?" She asks, almost too excitedly.
I bite my tongue. Should I tell her? Fuck it, I will. "Today I had lunch with Theo and suddenly Felix joined us. It was awkward as hell."
Julia puts her hands on my shoulders and gasps. "WHOA! Really?! Then? How did they react?"
"They had history, Jules. I mean, not in that way. It's just, maybe they were friends? Or something? Because obviously they knew each other. They even gave me warnings of each other. It's actually makes me so curious," I explain.
"Oh damn, this is more complicated that it seems. Do you think they fought over a girl in the past like they do now?"
My face reddens too quickly. I put away her hands from my shoulders. "Mind your words, Jules, they don't fight—"
Julia shrugs, cutting me. "Maybe not. But it's weird, right? You've been here—in this city and academy—over nine months and barely talked to anyone outside your classes. Now suddenly ... it's like fate's throwing boys at your head. Don't forget about your shitty ex who showed up again."
I also shrug. "Coincidence."
She hums thoughtfully. "Maybe."
But her gaze lingers a moment longer, sharp in a way she usually reserves for analyzing paintings. I hate how it makes something twist in my stomach. Because she's not wrong. It is weird. The timing ....
It feels like invisible strings tugging at me from all sides. And I don't know yet if they're pulling me closer to something good or something dangerous.
Still, I don't say any of that aloud. Instead, I toss another cookie at Julia, hitting her square in the forehead.
"Focus on midterms first," I declare.
She snorts and slides off the counter. "Deal."
Later, after Julia heads to her evening class, I find myself wandering back to the coffee table. The sketchbook peeks out from under the magazines.
I hesitate, then gently, carefully, slide it free again. One page, I promise myself. Just one.
I flip to the middle. A messy, half-finished sketch of a girl standing on a rooftop, arms outstretched like she's daring the sky to knock her down. I stare at it for a long time, feeling something ache in my chest.
There's still so much of me tangled up in these old lines. The girl who never really belonged anywhere. The girl who learned how to survive by dreaming. I remember how I felt when I was drawing this. Alone, wounded, crying in the corner.
I brush my fingers over the page and whisper, "You're okay now."
The past might still tug at me sometimes. But it doesn't own me anymore.
I'm building something real now. Piece by piece.
Friendships. Art. A life I chose, not one I was handed.
Maybe ... even something more.