Penelope didn't cry until she got home.
Not the quiet, cinematic kind of crying either. It was the messy, ugly, real kind—face buried in a pillow, her breath hitching, the kind of tears that taste like disappointment and blood and letting go.
Julian and Scott.
Fighting like idiots in a parking lot. Fighting over her like she was a prize in a game neither of them fully understood. Like she was just the final chapter in their separate tragedies.
She wasn't.
She was her own story.
She had always been her own story.
Penelope sat up slowly, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. She glanced at the sketchbook beside her bed — untouched for days. Her pencils sat like they were waiting for her to remember how to breathe through her fingers again.
She picked one up.
Let it hover over the page.
Then pressed down.
She didn't draw Julian.
She didn't draw Scott.
She drew herself.
And not the filtered version. Not soft lines and big eyes and poetic sadness. She drew the girl who yelled in parking lots, who cried in her room, who once ran out in the rain just to feel something louder than the ache in her chest.
She drew her messy hair. Her bitten nails. The look she'd had when she said, "Fight over who gets to lose me first."
She looked at the sketch when she was done and didn't feel ashamed.
She felt… seen.
Later that night, she went for a walk.
She didn't tell anyone.
She needed air. And quiet. And maybe a sign from the universe that she hadn't completely lost her mind.
The night was cold but gentle. The moon wore a soft halo. Leaves skittered across the sidewalk like whispers.
She wandered farther than she meant to.
And found herself in front of the community center. The lights were still on.
Inside, music floated out — not pop or electronic or some moody acoustic band — but jazz. Smooth, unhurried, unpredictable.
Penelope paused at the door. A sign read:
> "Thursday Night: Open Art and Music Jam. Come create."
She wasn't dressed for this. She looked like sadness in a hoodie.
But her feet moved before her brain could object.
Inside, a girl with purple braids was painting on a giant easel. A guy with round glasses was playing a keyboard with his eyes closed. There was laughter. Paint. Movement. Joy.
No one looked at her like she didn't belong.
That's when she saw him.
Not Julian. Not Scott.
Someone new.
He sat at the back of the room with a canvas in front of him, but he wasn't painting. He was just… staring at it. Like it had insulted his whole family.
Penelope walked over before she could overthink it.
"Art block?" she asked.
He looked up. Startled.
And wow.
Hazel eyes. Dimples. Hair so curly it looked like it had a personality of its own.
He smiled slowly. "That obvious?"
"Only because you're glaring at your brush like it owes you money."
He laughed. It was warm. Full.
"I'm Milo," he said, holding out a paint-stained hand.
"Penelope."
They shook.
"I used to come here all the time," he said. "Got busy. Forgot what it was like to make a mess without worrying if it's 'good enough.' You?"
She shrugged. "I was just walking. Ended up here."
"Well," Milo said, gesturing around. "Welcome to the land of beautiful mistakes."
She smiled.
They didn't flirt. It wasn't like that.
It was something easier. Safer. Like finding a bench when you didn't realize your legs were tired.
They painted in silence for a while. Not side-by-side, but close enough to feel the presence of someone who didn't expect anything from her.
She painted the street outside. The way the moonlight hit the puddles. The soft glow of the streetlamp.
Milo painted a field of sunflowers under a night sky. It shouldn't have worked, but it did.
When they were done, he leaned back and said, "You paint like you're trying to remember something."
She blinked. "What?"
"Some people paint what they see. Others paint what they wish they could forget. You? You're chasing something. A feeling. A moment. Like your art's trying to lead you back to yourself."
Penelope didn't respond.
She didn't have to.
It was the truest thing anyone had said to her in weeks.
When she got home that night, she slept.
Not the restless tossing of guilt or the numb exhaustion of confusion — but the kind of sleep that comes after you remember that your story isn't finished yet.
That you get to keep writing it.