MasukAyesha's POV
I held onto the torn edges and ran off towards the restroom. I heard some giggling behind me. When I got there, I sat on the toilet seat weeping and wondering why Chris had rejected me like that. He should have just accepted in front of everyone, then later we could have talked it out in private. Was that too much to ask, or didn't he care about my feelings the way I cared for his?
I thought about all those small moments I had held onto like they were promises. The time he had stopped in the hallway to ask if I had eaten. The two bouquets he brought without a reason. I had built a whole future out of those small things and apparently I had been building alone.
My mind went back to Gemma. She was the cause of all this. This is what she advised me to do and why wasn't she here comforting me like she used to? I wiped my eyes with the back of my palm, smearing mascara across my chin. I hissed when I looked in the mirror. Why should I care how I looked when this had just happened to me?
I stayed in that stall longer than I should have. Long enough to know that whatever was left of that evening was over. I straightened up, pressed a wad of tissue beneath my eyes, and told myself I wouldn't cry again tonight. I lied to myself. But I tried.
I stepped out slowly from the bathroom and into the get-together hall only to find that everyone had gone. The only thing sitting helplessly on a chair was my handbag. And as unbelievable as I would put it, Gemma was nowhere to be seen either. That meant I had spent too long in the bathroom. At least she should have waited for me.
I sadly took my bag and went home. Throughout the night, she wasn't picking my calls. Was she embarrassed too? But why would she be? She wasn't the one whose dress ripped with her undies peeking out, neither was she the one who got dumped in front of everyone. And it was all her idea, wasn't it?
When I got home, I sat curled at the edge of my bed with my phone face-up on the pillow, waiting for it to light up. I replayed the whole evening in my head like a punishment I couldn't stop giving myself. The ring I had saved up for. The green dress that didn't even fit. Chris's face when he said stop it was not flustered, not even regretful. Just cold. Like I was a stranger who had walked up to him at the wrong event.
My phone buzzed suddenly. For one hopeful second, I thought it was Gemma.
A message from one of my colleagues flashed across the screen.
Are you okay?
Below it was a video attachment.
My stomach dropped. I clicked on it and there I was, Kneeling, holding out the ring and then Chris rejecting me. What followed was the awful ripping sound.
I dropped the phone immediately. She had already uploaded it. A few minutes later another message came in. Some people asked if I was alright. Others sent crying emojis. One person sent laughing emojis before deleting them. It didn't matter. The damage was already done.
The video was out there. Everyone had seen it. I felt pity for myself, and that ridiculous video she made… I'd ask her to delete it as soon as I could reach her. Chris deserved an apology from me. I'd do that at the office tomorrow. But I hoped he let it slide. He cared for me, right? We were dating. He should just let it go.
I stashed the ripped dress away somewhere deep in my closet. I told myself I wouldn't throw it away or burn it. Maybe one day in the future, I'd show it to my children, if I got married and had them.
I woke up late the next day after I had promised myself I'd go in early so people wouldn't see me walking in. Dang, this was going to be disastrous. I fumbled through my shower after I brushed my teeth, which I wasn't sure I did properly. I grabbed a mint candy on my way out just in case.
The walk from the lobby to my desk felt like the longest walk of my life. I kept my head down, watching my own shoes move one step at a time across the floor. But even with my head down, I could feel things. Like when a conversation paused when I passed and the way someone cleared their throat. I knew what it felt like when attention was aimed at you. I'd been a target long enough to recognise the weight of it.
I put my head down as I navigated my way towards my spot in the office. People laughed about something and since I was someone who knew what it felt like when laughter was directed at her, I suspected something.
Pristine, who sat opposite me, was looking at her phone too, although she wasn't smiling. I had always known her to be very nonchalant.
"Excuse me, Pristine, what's going on? Everyone looks quite occupied. Is it work-related?"
"It would have been better if it was," she said flatly, and handed me her phone.
Yikes. There I was, proposing before a man, getting rejected, and getting my gown ripped between my ass.
The video had thousands of views already.
Someone had added dramatic music to it.
The comments were even worse.
I quickly looked away. I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry so bitterly, but everyone was there. Who knew who was holding a camera in my face today?
I swallowed my tears. "Thanks, Pristine."
She nodded, put the phone down, and went back to the paperwork she was doing. But where the hell was Gemma? This wasn't funny anymore. She had better fix this. I waited and an hour went by but she didn't show up.
Was I being too harsh? Maybe she was just sick, or worse. I dialled her number again but she didn't pick up. Why did you have to fall sick after exposing me like this, Gemma? I had almost forgotten my heartfelt apology to Chris.
No. That wasn't true. I hadn't forgotten, I had been avoiding it. The more I thought about yesterday, the more confused I became. Chris and I had been together for four years. Four years. Surely he didn't mean to humiliate me. Maybe he was angry or I had caught him off guard. Maybe if I explained myself properly, things would make sense again.
I couldn't sit here imagining answers. I needed to hear them from him. Despite being uncomfortable, I picked myself up and went to his office.
Knock knock. I hoped this worked out.
Ayesha's POVThe morning after the preliminary agreement was signed began the same way every morning in the house with the garden began, which was with the alarm and the specific quality of early light through the bedroom curtains and the warm weight of Ken beside me in the way that had been part of every morning for three years and that still produced in me, each time I was aware of it, the quiet satisfaction of something that was right and that I had not stopped noticing was right just because it had become familiar.Familiar and right were not the same thing. I had learned this distinction at considerable cost during the years before the gallery and I intended to keep the knowledge current by applying it daily to the things in my life that deserved to be distinguished rather than conflated, which included Ken beside me every morning and the walk to the gallery through the streets I had walked for six years and the specific quality of morning light through the gallery's tall windows
Ayesha's POVI told Suki on a Tuesday morning in April, which was the morning I had decided was the right morning in the way that certain mornings declare themselves right for certain conversations, with the specific quality of light and quiet that made the significant feel manageable rather than overwhelming.I told her that I was going to accept the foundation's offer and that accepting it was going to require structural changes to the gallery that I wanted her to be part of shaping, not as an employee being informed of decisions already made but as the person who understood the gallery's operational reality better than anyone and whose participation in the shaping was not optional but essential.She looked at me across the desk with the specific expression she wore when she was absorbing something that was larger than she had expected and was doing the internal work of expanding to hold it, and then she said I thought you were going to take it and I said I know you did and she said
Ayesha's POVPatricia's recommended lawyer was a man named James Obi who had the specific combination of intellectual rigor and practical directness that made legal review useful rather than merely thorough, and he came back to me ten days after I had sent him the partnership document with a report that was encouraging in its headline and complicated in its detail, which was the usual condition of documents that looked good on first reading and that were worth reading again more carefully.The headline was that page seven was real, which was the first and most important thing, the clause protecting curatorial autonomy was not a standard clause with loopholes dressed in reassuring language but a specific and enforceable protection that would survive the kinds of institutional pressure Vincent had described. James said he had seen many versions of this kind of clause and that most of them were decorative rather than functional and that this one was functional, which was the word he used
Ayesha's POVVincent Reeves was not what I expected, which was itself information about the kind of person he was because the most interesting people rarely arrived in the form their reputation suggested. His reputation suggested a formidable institutional figure of the kind that had opinions delivered as decisions and that treated conversations as negotiations to be won rather than territories to be explored. What sat across from me in the foundation's offices on the Monday morning was a man in his early sixties with the quality of attention I associated with people who had spent enough time in serious rooms to have stopped needing them to confirm anything about themselves and who were therefore free to actually listen to the other person rather than preparing the next statement.He had read everything. That was the first thing I understood from the way he spoke about the gallery, not just the documentary series or the Diana retrospective, though he had clearly watched and read about
Ayesha's POVThe email arrived on a Wednesday morning in March and I read it three times before I put my phone down and stared at the wall behind the desk with the specific quality of attention that very unexpected things produced in me, which was not the blank stare of someone who had stopped thinking but the focused inward look of someone whose thinking had suddenly become too large for any external surface to hold.The email was from a foundation I had heard of but never had direct contact with, the kind of arts institution that operated at the level of the city's cultural life rather than any individual gallery within it, the kind that made decisions that shaped which spaces mattered and which stories got told about the city's creative life to audiences far beyond the city itself. The foundation's director, a man named Vincent Reeves whose name I recognised from various significant moments in the national arts conversation over the preceding decade, had written personally rather t
Ayesha's POVThe January after the retrospective was the month I started writing things down in a way I had not done since the blank note on my phone with the three words at the top of it, which had been the beginning of the gallery and which I still had in my phone's notes somewhere under the accumulated record of six years of building.The writing was not a business plan, though it contained some of the elements that business plans contained, and it was not a journal, though it had the quality of something that was honest with itself rather than performing honesty for a reader. It was something between those things, a working document of what the gallery had been and what I understood it to be now and what the next version of it might look like given what Marlene had said about the expansion of its reputation and what Diana's retrospective had demonstrated about what the space was capable of holding.Ken called it the next note, which was a reference to the first one and which was h







