Chapter Three: The Art of Fitting In
(Lyra's POV)
By Thursday, Saint Valley's hallways don't feel like they're trying to swallow me whole anymore.
I still walk too fast, still carry my sketchbook like a shield, but I'm not counting the hours until I can go home. Not as much, anyway.
That counts as progress.
Soraya cornered me this morning and said, "You're joining the art club. No arguments."
I didn't argue. Mostly because she looked like she'd drag me there herself.
The Art Room is tucked at the end of the west wing — warm light spilling through tall windows, the faint smell of turpentine clinging to the air.
There's paint on the floor, half-finished canvases everywhere, and soft music playing from a tiny speaker in the corner.
It feels… safe.
Like a place that doesn't ask questions.
A girl with short auburn hair waves me in. "Hey! You must be the new member. I'm Rina, club president-slash-keeper of chaos."
"I'm Lyra," I say, shifting my sketchbook to my other arm.
"Grab a seat anywhere! Today's just free painting."
I pick a spot by the window and start sketching — a study of hands, graphite smudging the page. The way fingers curl, how light hits skin. I lose track of time until someone clears their throat beside me.
"You missed a spot."
I glance up — and of course, it's him.
Evander Vale, hair still damp from practice, jersey half-zipped under his jacket, holding a chocolate milk like he owns the place.
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
"Cassian's tutoring some guy down the hall. I got bored." He leans on the table, peering at my sketch. "That's… actually really good."
I blink. "Was that a compliment?"
"Don't get used to it," he says easily, but he's smiling.
I grab a charcoal stick and toss it lightly at him. "Go annoy someone else."
He catches it one-handed, still grinning. "You make that too easy."
"Evander!" Soraya's voice calls from the doorway. She and Saphira appear, both carrying smoothies. "There you are. We were looking for you."
"Found me," he says.
Saphira notices my smudged fingers. "Lyra! You joined the club!"
"Against my will," I mutter.
Soraya laughs. "Oh, please. You look like you're in your element. Maybe you'll paint our portraits next."
"Sure," I say. "If you want me to capture your worst angles."
"Rude," she gasps dramatically, nudging Saphira. "She fits right in."
They spend the rest of the period lounging near the windows, half-talking, half-teasing Evander about his "mysterious admiration for new artists."
He keeps denying it, cheeks faintly red. I pretend not to notice.
After club, Cassian catches up to me as I pack up.
"You did great today," he says quietly.
"You were watching?"
He shrugs. "A little." His steps fall in rhythm with mine as we walk. "Evander doesn't usually hang around the art room. Guess he's curious."
"Curious about what?"
Cassian's lips twitch. "Maybe about you."
I scoff. "Or maybe he just likes bugging me."
"Could be both."
We reach the gates before I realize he's walked me almost home. The sky is bruised pink, leaves catching the last of the light.
"So…" I say, "how long have you guys known each other?"
"Forever, basically. Saphira, Soraya, Aveline, and Evan have been friends since elementary. I moved here in middle school."
Mom's already home when I get in — rare for a Thursday.
She's at the counter sketching out something on tracing paper, pencil tapping to a rhythm I can't hear.
"You're home early," I say, dropping my bag.
"Site inspection got postponed. How was your day?"
I hesitate. "Good. I… joined the art club."
Her head snaps up, eyes bright. "Really? That's wonderful, anak!"
Anak. It slips out naturally — a Tagalog word I haven't heard in months. It feels like a hug I didn't know I needed.
She smiles. "You always find your way back to art, no matter what."
"Guess it runs in the family."
She hums, flipping to a clean sheet. "Your lola used to paint sunsets in Manila. She said every one looked different, depending on how happy she was that day."
I glance at her drawing — clean lines, structured, neat. The opposite of my messy sketches.
Still, somehow, they belong together.
Later that night, I sit by my window, sketchbook open, pencil moving without much thought.
I draw them — Soraya's confident grin, Saphira's soft smile, Cassian's quiet eyes, Evan's stupid smirk that somehow makes my stomach twist.
I shade the edges darker, until it almost looks like dusk on paper.
Maybe I'm starting to fit in here.
Maybe for once, I don't have to disappear.