Part 1: The Morning After
Saturday, Charlotte's POV — 8:23 AM
Charlotte woke up on her floor, still in her dress from the opening, phone dead beside her.
For a moment, she couldn't remember why she felt so hollow. Then it came back—the fight, Mateo leaving, the alley, everything.
She plugged in her phone and stumbled to the bathroom. Her reflection was a disaster—mascara smudged, hair tangled, the silk blouse wrinkled beyond repair.
She looked like someone who'd spent the night crying on the floor.
Because she had.
Her phone buzzed to life. Messages loaded:
Mother (11:47 PM): I heard you did well at the opening tonight. Mrs. Pemberton mentioned seeing you. We should talk.
Mother (12:15 AM): Charlotte, please call me when you can.
Lisa (7:02 AM): Hope you got some rest. Take the day off. You earned it.
Maria (7:34 AM): Morning. Just checking in. You ok?
Nothing from Mateo.
Charlotte sat on the edge of her bathtub, phone in hand, trying to decide what to do.
Text him? Call him? Give him space?
She started typing: Can we talk?
Deleted it.
I'm sorry about last night.
Deleted it.
I miss you.
Deleted it.
Finally, she just sent: Hi.
She stared at the screen. One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes.
No response.
Saturday, Mateo's POV — 8:47 AM
Mateo had been awake since 6 AM, staring at his studio ceiling.
He'd come home from the gallery opening, tried to paint, failed, and ended up just sitting on his floor with a beer he didn't drink.
Sophie had texted around midnight: You ok?
He'd responded: No.
Sophie: Want to talk about it?
Mateo: Tomorrow maybe.
Now his phone sat on his workbench, and he was afraid to look at it. Afraid Charlotte had texted. Afraid she hadn't.
When it buzzed, his heart jumped.
Charlotte: Hi.
That was it. Just "Hi."
He stared at it, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
What was he supposed to say? Sorry I called you fake in front of your coworkers? Sorry I can't handle feeling inferior? Sorry I'm so insecure I'm sabotaging the best thing that's happened to me?
He set the phone down without responding.
An hour later, Sophie showed up with coffee and bagels.
"You look like shit," she said, letting herself in.
"Thanks."
"Did you text her back?"
"No."
"Mateo—"
"What am I supposed to say, Sophie? That I'm sorry for telling the truth? That I didn't mean it when I said she was performing?" He ran his hand through his hair. "Because I did mean it. I watched her become someone else in that gallery. And it scared me."
"Or," Sophie said carefully, "you watched her use skills she has to do her job, and your own insecurity made it feel like she was choosing that world over you."
"It wasn't just insecurity. Maria saw it too. She said—"
"Maria is nineteen and still figuring things out herself. Don't use her as validation for your fears."
Mateo slumped onto his futon. "I don't know how to do this, Sophie. How to be with someone who fits so easily into a world where I'll always be the outsider."
"So you're just not going to try?"
"I don't know."
Sophie sat beside him. "Here's what I know: you're in love with her. And that terrifies you. So you're looking for reasons why it won't work instead of fighting for reasons why it could."
"What if she goes back?"
"What if she doesn't? Mateo, you can't make her pay for things she hasn't done yet."
"But—"
"But nothing. You either trust her or you don't. And if you don't, then yeah, end it now. But if you do? You need to stop punishing her for having a past you didn't have."
After Sophie left, Mateo looked at his phone again.
Charlotte: Hi.
Two hours ago. Still unanswered.
He started typing: Hey. Sorry I didn't respond earlier.
Deleted it.
Can we talk?
Deleted it.
He set the phone down again. He needed to think. Really think about what he wanted and whether he could handle being with someone whose privilege would always be there, in the background, making him feel small.
Part 2: Sunday — Separate Processing
Charlotte's POV
Charlotte spent Sunday with Maria.
They met at Venice Beach, walked along the boardwalk, got cheap coffee from a cart.
"He hasn't texted me back," Charlotte said. "I sent 'Hi' yesterday morning and... nothing."
"Maybe he needs space."
"Or maybe he's done with me."
Maria was quiet for a moment. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Do you love him?"
Charlotte stopped walking. "I... I don't know. I care about him. A lot. But love? I'm not sure I know what that means anymore. I thought I loved Thomas once."
"That's not the same."
"How do you know?"
"Because with Thomas, you were playing a role. With Mateo, you're trying to figure out who you actually are." Maria sat down on a bench. "But Charlotte, here's the thing—you can't figure out who you are FOR someone. You have to figure it out for yourself."
"That's what everyone keeps saying. But I don't know how."
"What do you want to do with your life? Like, really do. Not what you should do, not what proves anything—what do you actually want?"
Charlotte thought about Friday night. The gallery opening, coordinating everything, watching artists connect with collectors, seeing Maria's mom's face light up when she understood her daughter was part of this world.
"I want to curate," she said slowly. "I want to find artists like you, artists who are talented but don't have access, and give them a platform. I want to use my connections—yeah, the ones from my old life—to open doors that would otherwise stay closed."
"That's amazing."
"But it means using parts of myself that Mateo sees as fake. The networking, the schmoozing, the ability to talk to wealthy collectors. He hates all of that."
"Does he hate it? Or does he hate feeling like he's not part of it?"
Charlotte hadn't thought of it that way.
Maria continued, "Mateo's insecure. I could see it Friday night. He felt out of place, so he lashed out. That's on him, not you."
"But he wasn't wrong. I do change when I'm in that environment."
"Everyone does! Charlotte, I change when I'm at my mom's restaurant versus when I'm painting versus when I'm teaching kids. We all code-switch. That doesn't make you fake. It makes you adaptable."
"Then why do I feel so guilty?"
"Because someone you care about made you feel bad for being good at something." Maria looked at her. "And maybe because part of you is still ashamed of where you came from. Like you have to prove you're not that person anymore."
Charlotte felt tears in her eyes. "Maybe."
"But you don't have to prove anything, Charlotte. Not to Mateo, not to me, not to your mom. You just have to decide who you want to be and own it. All of it."
Mateo's POV
Mateo spent Sunday painting.
Or trying to.
He started five different canvases and abandoned all of them. Everything felt forced, false, like he was trying too hard to capture something that kept slipping away.
Around 3 PM, his phone rang. Morrison Gallery. David Chen.
"Mateo, how are you?"
"Fine. What's up?"
"I wanted to follow up on those opportunities we discussed. The hotel commission and the Paris gallery. Both are still very interested, but they need answers soon."
Mateo stared at his failed canvases. "How soon?"
"End of the week for the hotel. Two weeks for Paris. But Mateo—" David's voice changed. "I need to be straight with you. If you take the Paris offer, you need to commit. A year minimum, probably more. It's a huge opportunity, but it's also a huge ask."
"I know."
"So what's making you hesitate?"
Mateo didn't answer right away. Finally: "Personal stuff."
"The woman from the opening Friday? I saw you two leave separately."
"Yeah."
"Mateo, I'm not going to tell you what to do with your personal life. But I will say this—don't pass up your career for a relationship that might not work out anyway."
After they hung up, Mateo sat with that.
Paris. A year. Maybe more.
And Charlotte, here in LA, building her own life, figuring out who she was.
Could they do long distance? Did he even want to try?
Or was this the universe telling him what he already knew—that they were from different worlds and forcing it was only going to hurt more later?