The school's art gallery buzzed with low conversations and pretentious critiques, the kind Clara had grown used to tuning out. But tonight, she couldn't stop her heart from pounding in her chest.
She stood in the far corner of the exhibit space, hands hidden in the sleeves of her paint-streaked cardigan. Her piece hung beneath a warm light, the theme card above it reading:
"Firsts" – Clara Bennett-Ronan
It was a canvas built on layers—skies that shifted from stormy gray to blue-violet, stars stitched in gold thread across the top, and in the center: a girl standing barefoot on a crumbling rooftop, arms open to the wind. Her hair blew back like wings. Her eyes, though closed, were alight with color.
It wasn't subtle.
It was him.
Lucien.
Painted through her.
"Brave," someone behind her murmured. "A little too metaphorical, maybe."
Clara ignored them.
She didn't paint for praise. She painted because it hurt too much to keep things in.
She scanned the crowd.
Where was he?
Ten Minutes Later
Lucien stood in front of her canvas, hands in his pockets, lips parted just slightly.
Clara had been watching him from across the room, unsure whether to approach or let him soak it in.
He hadn't looked around yet. Just stood there, taking it in. His camera was slung over his back, but he hadn't touched it once tonight.
Finally, she walked up beside him.
"You came," she said.
"I said I would."
He didn't look at her, eyes still on the painting. "That's me, isn't it?"
Clara hesitated. "It's… inspired by you."
Lucien turned to her slowly. His eyes were unreadable—storm and dusk all at once.
"You painted me the way I want to be seen," he said.
Clara's throat caught. "And how's that?"
He studied the image again. "Free. Like I don't owe anyone a version of myself."
A long pause passed between them.
"But you don't even know all the versions of me, Clara."
"I'm not trying to own your story," she said, a little too quickly. "It's just… this is how I saw you. That night. That photo. You said he wasn't falling. He was flying. And I—"
Lucien shook his head, not in anger, but something more tangled. "You saw hope. That's rare. Most people look at me and see the cracks."
"I saw the light coming through them."
He blinked. Slowly.
And then he said the one thing she didn't expect.
"I don't know if I'm ready for someone like you."
The words hit harder than she wanted them to.
Clara forced a tight smile. "You don't have to be ready. I'm not asking you to change. I'm just—"
"Clara!" Lou's voice interrupted. "They want the artists up front for the photo!"
Clara looked between her best friend and Lucien, pulse fluttering. "I have to go."
He gave a small nod, stepped back, and she walked away—feeling like she'd just left a piece of her chest behind with him.
Aria waited in the kitchen, a cup of chamomile tea in her hands.
Clara walked in and dropped onto a stool, eyes heavy.
"How did the show go?" Aria asked gently.
Clara hesitated. "People liked it."
"And the boy?"
Clara stared into her lap. "He said… he's not ready for someone like me."
Aria set her tea down.
"Oh, sweetheart."
Clara bit her lip hard. "I didn't even ask for anything. I just painted what I felt. Is that so terrible?"
"No," Aria said softly, moving to sit beside her. "It's brave."
"Feels stupid."
"It's vulnerable. And that's different. Most people spend their lives running from vulnerability. But artists… we put it in frames and hang it up for everyone to see."
Clara's voice cracked. "He saw himself in it. And still pulled away."
Aria wrapped her arms around her daughter.
"Sometimes," she said, "the way we see someone scares them more than being invisible ever did."
Meanwhile – Across the City
Lucien stood alone on the Seine bridge, camera in hand, but no photos taken.
He kept seeing her painting. Seeing himself in it—not as he was, but as he could be.
It terrified him.
Because what if he let her see him for real?
What if she didn't like what was behind the wings?
Or worse—what if she did?