SMACK!
"Wake up, brat. School's over," Dale said, slapping a textbook down on Vince's head.
Vince stirred, groaning as he rubbed his eyes. "Already? What time is it?"
"Time to get up before you drool all over your desk again. We're heading to the arcade—Oscar and Karina are meeting us there."
Vince stretched, barely listening.
"Hey... is the art club still open right now?" he asked casually, trying too hard to sound casual.
Dale gave him a knowing smirk. "Ahhh. I see. Chasing inspiration, huh?"
"Just asking," Vince muttered.
"I think it's still open, but no clue if she's there."
"Got it. You go ahead. I'll catch up later." Vince grabbed his bag and headed for the hallway.
Dale watched him leave, shaking his head. "He's finally found someone who's cracked that thick skull of his."
⸻
Vince walked slowly through the empty halls, the usual end-of-day noise fading behind him. When he reached the art room, he didn't go in. Just peeked through the glass window in the door, hoping—maybe—to catch a glimpse of her.
His heart kicked once when he saw the lights were on.
Then—
"Looking for someone?"
He spun around, caught off guard.
It was her. Vanessa. Just like that day in the market. Just like before.
She stood behind him, head tilted slightly.
"Hey... I was just leaving," Vince said, too fast.
She glanced toward the door, then back at him. "Pretty sure the school exit's in the opposite direction."
He looked down, busted. Before he could reply again, she walked past him and pushed open the art room door.
"If you're gonna stand there being awkward, you might as well come in."
Vince blinked. "Ah—okay."
He followed her inside.
Vanessa didn't say a word as she entered.
She moved with routine precision—folding up the sleeves of her school blouse, slipping on a paint-streaked apron, and tying her hair back into a loose knot. Without looking at him, she rinsed the brushes from the morning session and laid a fresh canvas across the easel.
Vince quietly pulled a chair to one of the nearby tables and sat down. He didn't speak, didn't fidget. The silence wasn't awkward—it was peaceful.
The art room felt like another world. Paintings lined the walls—vivid bursts of color, still lifes, dreamscapes. Vanessa's touch was everywhere, like butterflies frozen mid-flight.
Finally, she broke the silence. "Why were you staring at me in the cafeteria?"
Vince blinked, caught off guard. "I was curious."
She didn't turn around. "Curious? Is death-staring someone considered curiosity now?"
He laughed under his breath. "I guess I was just surprised. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed you before. The school's not that big."
She dipped her brush into a jar of yellow. "You're known for skipping classes, aren't you? Hard to notice people when you're not around."
Vince leaned forward. "Wait—you knew about that?"
She gave a small shrug, still not facing him. "Who doesn't?"
He scratched his head and chuckled. "Wow. Was I really that infamous?"
"Skipping school isn't exactly something good to be known for," she said flatly, dragging a long stroke across the canvas.
"Yeah... you might be right." His voice dropped a little. The smile faded from his face, replaced by something more thoughtful. "It's not like I was doing anything important. Just... didn't like being here."
Vanessa didn't respond. But for a moment, her brush paused at the edge of the canvas.
The room was quiet again, but not uncomfortable. Vince sat still, watching Vanessa paint—his eyes flicking between her careful brushstrokes and the calm expression on her face.
Somehow, the silence between them no longer felt awkward. It just... existed. Like a blanket over something neither of them had the words to name yet.
"You're not going home?" she asked, breaking the quiet again.
"I'm not too fond of home," he replied. "I'd rather stay here."
There was a short pause.
"Me neither," she muttered, barely above a whisper.
Vince glanced at her.
He wanted to ask, but didn't.
Instead, he shifted the topic. "By the way... why are you the only one here? Isn't the art club supposed to be pretty big?"
"There isn't an art club anymore," she said simply.
"What? I thought you guys won awards and stuff?"
"That was months ago. Everyone left to focus on college applications."
"So you're here by yourself..."
He paused, then asked gently, "Then can—"
"No," she said instantly, before he could finish.
He blinked. "Right... got it."
She softened her tone, just a little. "The art room's the only place I can breathe. I'd rather be here alone."
Vince nodded slowly. "Am I intruding?"
"You are," she said, still focused on her canvas, "but I can't stop you from being here. The room's open to anyone."
That could've been the end of it.
But then—her phone rang.
The tone was loud in the quiet room. She glanced at the screen, and something changed in her face. All the calm drained out, replaced by something sharp. Tense. Frightened.
Without a word, she started packing up—rushing, almost panicked.
"Hey," Vince stood up. "Is everything okay?"
"I'll see you," she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Her voice was tight. Her eyes never met his.
Then she bolted, heading straight for the door.
"Wait—Vanessa!" Vince called out, but she didn't stop.
Driven by instinct more than thought, he grabbed his own bag and followed.
By the time he reached the street, she was already at the bus stop. He didn't think—he just ran and jumped on the same bus as she did, slipping quietly into a seat across the aisle.
He watched her out of the corner of his eye.
Something's wrong, he thought.
And this time, he wasn't going to let her disappear again.