---
**Part 2**
Tuesday felt like a mirror—flawed, smudged, and slightly off from reality.
Lena stood at her locker longer than she needed to, eyes on her phone screen but mind somewhere else. The hallway buzzed around her—students shoving books into backpacks, laughter echoing down the corridors, snippets of gossip, and the occasional locker slam that felt too loud.
Her mind kept replaying that final exchange with Jace.
*"Some things fade if you keep them in the dark."*
He hadn't said it with anger. There was no accusation in his voice. Just… honesty. And that, somehow, made it harder to ignore.
"You good?" Maddie's voice cut through.
Lena blinked up, startled. "Yeah. Just tired."
"You sure?" Maddie leaned her shoulder against the locker beside her. "Because you've been zoning out all morning. And don't give me the 'homework' excuse."
Lena forced a small smile. "I promise. Just thinking about stuff."
Maddie narrowed her eyes but didn't press further. "Well, if you get tired of stuff, there's a junior council meeting today. We're finalizing the Spring Bash theme. Come and vote for something that doesn't involve glitter explosions."
"I might," Lena said, though she already knew she wouldn't. It was easier to pretend she belonged than to step into a room and feel like an outsider all over again.
Maddie disappeared down the hall, and Lena stayed frozen. Her locker, still open, felt like a metaphor: exposed, full of things she didn't want anyone else to see.
---
In English Lit, Jace didn't look at her.
Not once.
He sat in the back row, arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed on Mr. Halden's chalkboard scribbles. Normally he'd make a sarcastic comment or whisper something under his breath to her. Today, silence.
Lena tried not to care.
Tried.
But when the bell rang and he left without a word, the ache in her stomach said otherwise.
---
Art class should've been her safe place.
The smell of old paper, the scratch of charcoal on canvas, the quiet murmurs of brushes dipping in paint—it all felt familiar, grounding. But even there, something felt off.
Ms. Benton handed her a flyer. "You're submitting something for the Spring Exhibition, right?"
Lena stared at the paper. A simple design: *'Art From the Heart: Student Works on Identity'*. Submission deadline in two weeks.
"I… don't know."
Ms. Benton tilted her head. "Why not? Your mural studies are incredible."
"Because I'm not ready," Lena said, quieter than intended.
The teacher didn't argue. She just nodded. "Art doesn't wait for ready. It waits for honest."
Lena folded the flyer and slid it into her bag.
Across the room, Will Martinez was sketching something in fast strokes. When their eyes met, he offered a soft smile. She returned it, half-hearted.
She didn't have space for confusion.
---
The next three days passed like water in a closed fist—nothing solid, nothing held.
She and Jace barely spoke. They passed each other in the halls like planets on separate orbits. She caught glimpses of him at lunch, surrounded by friends, headphones in, shoulders stiff like he was carrying something.
And maybe he was.
Maybe *they both* were.
She thought about texting him—three different times. Her thumbs would hover over the keyboard, words halfway formed:
**Hey.**
**Do you want to talk?**
**I miss how we were.**
But every time she stopped. Because saying something made it real, and she didn't know if she was ready for real.
---
By Friday, she'd had enough of pretending.
She found him after school, sitting on the edge of the field bleachers, earbuds in, sketchbook open. Yes—*his* sketchbook. She hadn't even known he drew.
Lena climbed the steps quietly and sat beside him.
No greeting. No apology.
Just silence.
Jace pulled one earbud out and didn't look up. "Thought you'd forgotten where I hang out."
"I didn't forget," Lena said. "I just got… scared."
He flipped a page in his sketchbook, letting the wind catch the corner. "Of what?"
She hesitated. "Of messing this up. Of misreading everything."
He closed the book. "So you decided saying nothing was safer."
"Yes," she admitted. "It felt easier."
"Well," Jace said, "easy isn't always better."
She looked at him now. Really looked. His jaw was clenched, his eyes tired.
"What are you drawing?" she asked softly.
He handed her the sketchbook without a word.
Lena flipped through slowly. Page after page of fragmented lines—buildings, shadows, faces. And then she saw it.
*Her*.
Sitting in the courtyard, hoodie up, chewing a carrot stick. Another sketch of her laughing—mouth open wide. And another, looking up at a mural that hadn't been painted yet.
She couldn't breathe.
"You—"
"I started after that day in the park," Jace said. "It felt like the only way to make sense of what I was feeling."
Lena's voice cracked. "You never told me."
"You never asked."
A beat passed between them—long, thick with meaning.
"I don't want us to fade," she said. "Even if I don't know what we are."
Jace finally looked at her. "We're something. And that's a start."
---
Saturday was a blur of paint and paper.
Lena spent five hours in the art room, headphones in, sketching like she hadn't in weeks. The mural was taking shape now. She added pieces of things she'd been too afraid to draw before: her father's old jacket hanging on a chair. A hand reaching out of rain. A profile of Jace—not exact, but close enough that her fingers trembled after each stroke.
She stayed until the sun dipped below the windows. Then, slowly, she packed up and walked to the front steps of the school.
And there he was.
Jace, leaning against the rail, hands in his jacket pockets.
"Hey," he said, like he hadn't been standing there for twenty minutes.
"Hey," she said back.
"I was thinking…" he started. "Maybe it's not about putting a label on anything yet."
She raised a brow. "Yeah?"
"Maybe it's just about showing up. Every day. Even when it's hard."
Lena exhaled. "That I can do."
He smiled.
They walked in silence again—but this time, the quiet felt full, not empty.
---
That night, Lena finally sent a text:
**Me:** *Thank you. For waiting.*
**Jace:** *Thank you. For showing up.*
She stared at the screen long after it went dark.
Maybe this was what slow looked like.
Not grand gestures or sudden confessions.
Just two people finding their way through the dark. Together.
---