Chapter 19
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My throat tightened, and I suddenly couldn’t breathe. My mind raced, trying to recall what painting it could be. Then it hit me. The one I did in the middle of one of those long, silent nights when Tristan hadn’t come home. When the world felt like it was falling apart, and I had poured every bit of my heart into the canvas.
A woman staring into the distance, half in shadows, half in light, caught between holding on and letting go. I cried while painting her. Not just cried–sobbed, until my body ached. And now a stranger had stood before it and seen something of his lost love in that pain.
*1… I don’t know what to say,” I murmured, my hand trembling as I rested it on the table. “Why… why would he pay that much?”
“Because,” Veronica said gently, “you reminded him that love doesn’t die. That even in the silence, even in the absence, it can still live. You gave him a piece of her.”
I covered my mouth with my hand, blinking away tears. For so long I had questioned whether I was still an artist, whether anything I did had meaning anymore. And here was proof–undeniable, breathtaking proof–that even through the haze I’d been lost in, something true had emerged.
Veronica reached over and touched my hand. “That’s who you are, Sophia. That’s what you’re capable of–when you’re not drowning in someone else’s shadow.”
I looked at her then, my heart finally stilling just enough to let her words sink in.
“I really think you should just sell it at the original price,” I said gently, my fingers wrapped around the warm coffee mug as I looked across the table at Veronica.
Her brows furrowed slightly, that ever–calculating glint in her eyes not dimmed even by the cozy glow of the café lights.
“There’s no need to charge that much. You know it’s beautiful, but it doesn’t have to come with a ridiculous price tag.”
Veronica gave me a look, her red lipstick untouched despite sipping her espresso like a cat sipping from a crystal bowl. “Sophia, you’re too soft- hearted,” she said, half–laughing as she shook her head. “You always are. It’s almost annoying. You think emotions should always win over practicality. But you know what?”
She sighed and leaned back in her chair, swirling the espresso in her cup. “Fine. I’ll go with the original pricing. Just don’t come crying to me when you get robbed blind.”
A soft smile curved my lips. I reached out, resting my hand briefly over hers.
“Thank you. It’s just that… in some cases, money doesn’t matter as much as emotional value. That painting deserves an owner who will actually appreciate what it feels like, not just how it looks or how much it costs. It should go to someone who sees beyond the canvas–to someone who’ll stand in front of it and feel understood. Not just someone who’s collecting dust with dollar signs.”
Veronica rolled her eyes, but it was playful now, not dismissive. “You always speak like a poem.” She stood up, grabbing her coat. “Come on, softie. I’ll drop you at the art school. You’ve got, what, half an hour before class?”
I nodded, grateful. “Yeah. Thanks. I really didn’t want to deal with the bus today, and I left my car at the daycare.”
Once in her car, I settled into the passenger seat, letting the city pass in blurs of motion through the window. There was something peaceful about being driven somewhere, the way the world moved outside while you sat still inside.
C
1 could feel the leftover warmth of the coffee seeping through me, but beneath it, a storm I couldn’t always tame was quietly stirring–frustration, restlessness, the sharp pangs of self–doubt I rarely voiced.
Veronica broke the silence with that bold voice of hers. “You need to start channeling all that shit you feel into your art, Sophia. Seriously. All that pent–up anger, the sadness you won’t even admit you carry–use it. Throw it on a canvas, pour it into color. You want your art to be great? Let it bleed. That’s how masterpieces are made.”
I blinked at her, caught off guard by the way her words sliced through the fog inside me. “I…” I hesitated, then let out a shaky breath. “I’ll try. It’s hard, Veronica. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m feeling, let alone how to paint it. But… you’re right. I’ve been holding back too much. I’ll try my best to stop doing that.”
My voice cracked a little near the end, and I hated that it did, but Veronica didn’t comment on it. She just kept driving, her expression softer now, like she knew what I meant even if I couldn’t say it all.
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9:14 AM P
Chapter 19
And in that moment, even with the chaos still humming in my chest, I felt the smallest flicker of hope that maybe–just maybe–my next brushstroke would speak for me louder than any words could.
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