The sky above Whitmore Academy was still pale when Jasmine stepped out of her dorm, the cold morning air brushing against her cheeks like an unexpected caress. The campus was unusually silent at that hour, the soft hum of distant traffic blending with the rustle of leaves stirred by the early breeze. As she crossed the courtyard, her footsteps echoing lightly on the stone path, she couldn't shake off the weight of the previous day—the confession Lisa had nearly voiced, the touch of Nathalie's hand guiding hers, the turmoil twisting inside her chest.
She clutched her sketchbook tightly against her side. If only things were simple… But they weren't. Every thought, every emotion had grown sharper, heavier. She wasn't sure how much longer she could pretend she understood her own heart.
When Jasmine entered the art building, she noticed something strange: Studio 3B's door was slightly ajar. A sliver of warm light spilled into the hallway, flickering softly like a trapped flame. It wasn't unusual for teachers to arrive early, but the sight of that open door sent a quiet thrill down her spine.
Curiosity tugged at her. Hesitation battled with desire.
She pushed the door gently.
Inside, the studio was bathed in a warm glow from the overhead lamps. The tall windows, still darkened by the lingering night, reflected her silhouette as she stepped in. Paintbrushes lay scattered beside jars of water and palettes, the aroma of fresh acrylics filling the air like a subtle perfume.
Then she saw her.
Mme Nathalie was standing beside a large canvas, her posture relaxed yet elegant, a thin brush between her fingers. She was painting—something Jasmine had never witnessed. Nathalie usually taught, corrected, observed… but seeing her creating, lost in her own world, was something else entirely.
Nathalie hadn't noticed her presence yet. Jasmine froze, captivated. The brush glided across the canvas in fluid strokes, the colors blending with subtle mastery. Nathalie's hair cascaded loosely down her shoulders, catching the golden light. There was a softness in her expression Jasmine had never seen before—focused, serene, vulnerable.
She's beautiful, Jasmine thought, entranced.
Suddenly, Nathalie turned.
Her eyes met Jasmine's. A flicker of surprise crossed her face before softening into a calm, knowing smile.
"Good morning, Jasmine," she said, her voice low and warm. "You're early."
"I… I didn't mean to interrupt," Jasmine stammered, stepping back instinctively.
"You're not interrupting," Nathalie replied, placing the brush gently on the table. "Come in."
Jasmine entered fully, her heart thudding in her chest. "I… didn't know you painted before class."
"It helps clear my mind," Nathalie said. "Art is my way of breathing."
The words settled into Jasmine's chest like a quiet flame.
"But this…" Jasmine nodded toward the canvas. "It looks incredible."
"Thank you," Nathalie murmured. She wiped her fingers on a cloth, then turned fully toward Jasmine. "You look tired. Did you sleep?"
Jasmine hesitated. "Not really."
Nathalie's eyes softened. "You seem troubled."
The sincerity in her tone made Jasmine's breath hitch. "It's nothing important," she said too quickly.
Nathalie stepped closer, and Jasmine felt her pulse quicken. "Everything that affects your art is important," she said quietly.
Jasmine exhaled slowly. Why does she always see through me?
She wanted to speak—about Lisa, about her confusing feelings, about everything pressing against her ribs—but something stopped her. She wasn't ready. She couldn't expose that part of herself. Not yet.
Before Nathalie could press further, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Lisa entered the studio, cheeks flushed, breath uneven. "Jasmine—oh. You're already here."
Her eyes flicked to Nathalie, then to the canvas, then back to Jasmine. A shadow passed over her face.
"You're early," Jasmine said gently, noticing the strain in Lisa's smile.
"I… couldn't sleep," Lisa said, avoiding her gaze. "I thought… maybe we could walk to class together."
The silence that followed was thick. Nathalie looked between them, something unreadable crossing her features before she spoke.
"Class starts in ten minutes," she reminded them. "Feel free to stay here until the others arrive."
Lisa nodded, but the tension in her shoulders didn't ease. Jasmine felt the weight of Lisa's gaze—the sadness, the jealousy, the silent plea tangled within it.
A few students filtered in minutes later, dispersing the fragile intimacy hanging in the air. Jasmine took her usual seat, Lisa settling beside her, quieter than she had been in weeks.
When class officially began, Nathalie stood at the front of the studio, her presence commanding immediate attention.
"Today," she announced, "we'll be working with live composition."
The students exchanged excited whispers. Live composition classes were rare—intense, demanding, emotionally charged. Jasmine felt anticipation rise inside her.
Nathalie unveiled a portable screen and gestured toward the center stool. "I asked for a volunteer yesterday," she said. "Someone brave enough to be our model today."
The students craned their necks.
When the figure stepped out from behind the screen, Jasmine's breath caught.
It was a senior student named Amira—tall, poised, strikingly beautiful, with deep brown skin and luminous eyes. She wore a fitted off-shoulder top and shorts, elegant yet modest, highlighting the strong lines of her body.
Jasmine heard whispered murmurs. Amira was popular—smart, confident, effortlessly charming. She could make anyone nervous.
Lisa stiffened.
Nathalie smiled softly. "We'll study posture, emotion, and the narrative of the body. Look closely. A pose is never just a pose."
As Amira settled on the stool, her posture graceful, her gaze steady, Jasmine felt an odd twist inside her chest—admiration mixed with a faint pang she couldn't explain.
Lisa noticed. Her jaw tightened.
The class began sketching. Eyes darted between paper and model. Nathalie moved among the students, offering guidance, her tone warm but precise.
When she reached Jasmine, she stopped longer than usual.
"Your proportions are strong," Nathalie murmured, leaning in. "But look at her expression. Don't just replicate—interpret."
Jasmine nodded, adjusting her lines.
Nathalie touched Jasmine's forearm lightly to reposition her hand.
Lisa froze.
Her pencil slipped, scratching across the page.
Nathalie's touch lingered for a second too long. Jasmine felt heat bloom across her skin. She inhaled sharply, her focus unraveling.
Lisa's eyes darkened with something sharp—an emotion she had been trying desperately to hide.
Minutes passed. Lines blurred. Shadows deepened.
Then it happened.
Amira shifted subtly in her pose, her top slipping slightly down one shoulder. It wasn't inappropriate—just enough to reveal a smooth expanse of skin illuminated by the warm studio lights.
Nathalie stepped quickly toward her. "Hold still," she said softly, lifting the fabric with delicate precision. "Maintain the pose."
Her fingers brushed Amira's skin lightly as she adjusted the fabric. The studio remained silent, students breathlessly focused.
But Lisa watched Jasmine.
And Jasmine…
Jasmine watched Nathalie.
She couldn't help it. The way Nathalie's hand moved, the intimate closeness, the quiet authority—all of it sent a pulse racing through her. She didn't realize she was staring until Lisa spoke.
"You're looking at her like that again," Lisa whispered, her voice cracking.
Jasmine flinched. "Lisa—"
"You don't even notice when I'm right here," Lisa said, her hands trembling. "You never look at me the way you look at her."
The words were barely audible, but they struck Jasmine with the force of a blow.
Before she could respond, Nathalie called her name.
"Jasmine. Come here."
The room seemed to narrow. Jasmine stood slowly, walking toward Nathalie as though drawn by an invisible thread.
Nathalie showed her a section of the canvas at the front. "This part," she said, "lacks confidence. You have the skill. But you hesitate when emotion is involved."
Jasmine looked up at her, throat tightening. "I'm trying."
"I know," Nathalie said softly. "But you must stop running from what you feel."
The world seemed to still.
Jasmine swallowed. "And what is it you think I feel?"
Nathalie held her gaze for a moment too long, her eyes calm yet burning with unspoken meaning. "Only you can answer that."
Behind them, Lisa's breath hitched audibly. The hurt in her eyes was unmistakable.
The rest of class passed in a haze. Jasmine could barely focus. Lisa avoided her. Nathalie remained composed, but Jasmine sensed a shift, subtle and dangerous.
When the session ended, students filed out. Jasmine gathered her things slowly, nerves buzzing. Lisa waited at the door, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.
"We need to talk," Lisa murmured, barely controlling the tremor in her voice.
"I know…" Jasmine whispered.
Lisa stepped closer. "I don't want to lose you."
Jasmine's heart ached. "You won't."
But both of them knew it wasn't that simple.
Before they could say more, Nathalie called out from her desk:
"Jasmine. One more moment, please."
Lisa's expression crumpled.
Jasmine froze, caught between two gravitational pulls.
Nathalie waited.
Lisa waited.
For the first time, Jasmine truly felt trapped.