Her poison, His antidote

The screen glowed an unsaved number. The drop in my stomach was so violent it felt like falling from a tree. The warmth vanished, replaced by a wash of disappointment. it wasn’t him. He was probably still asleep, untroubled, or already charming someone new in his office. I was an idiot. “Hello?” My voice was like that of a stranger, rough with sleep and lost hope. "Ava Thompson?" A woman’s voice, bright, and professional, "This is Clara Vance from The Modernist Group. I am so sorry for the early call!" A client. A potential client, The words registered somewhere in the logical part of my brain, but they bounced off quickly to the cold hurt that filled every other part of me. She was talking about my latest art series, my Fragmented Light series. She was at the studio and She would love to pop in. My studio!, The word flashed image of canvases, the smell of colours, a version of myself with paint in hair and purpose in eyes. The ache in my chest pulsed, a reminder o

My thumb slid across the screen, not to answer, but to send the call to a silence deeper than any voicemail. I powered the phone off. The world didn’t end. The pavement beneath my feet stayed solid. I took the third step, then the fourth and more. One minute I walked out of Alberth lounge then the next I was collapsing into the backseat of a pigoet, gasping for air. The taxi ride home was a blur of streetlights and a low hum of radio talk. I kept the phone off, a dead weight in my lap. The silence it represented felt like the only thing I controlled. Back in my apartment, the stillness was a physical presence. I toasted a slice of bread, forced down a few bites, the food tasting like ash. The act felt ridiculous, nourishing a body that housed a completely shattered spirit. But I did it anyways. The thought of Eleanor’s offer enveloped me,how she spoken, how she looked at me…I didn’t deserve any of this from both Austin and his mother,I thought of her last statement, “He

My mind was a jumble of confusion as i tried to piece together the events of the night before. The stranger…..the one whose car i had entered. I hurriedly got off the bed, Austin’s house wasn’t the best place to be right now. As I tried to move, my head swam violently, and i almost fell due to the alcohol i took the previous night. I steadied myself against the nightstand, my heart hammering against my ribs. How did I get here? Of all places... The soft, gray sheets, the crafted art on the walls, it was undeniably his. A wave of nausea, unrelated to the hangover, washed over me. I needed to leave before he found me here. The memory of our last encounter was a fresh wound, and this was the last place i ever wanted to be. Tiptoeing unsteadily, i picked up my shoes and made my way to the bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. Peeking through the crack, i saw the spacious living room and a figure asleep on the large sofa. It was him. The stranger. Holding my breath, I crept past

My phone rang, slicing through the heavy silence between us. I almost jumped at the sound. Alex was still watching me with those patient green eyes, waiting for my answer about letting him drive me home, and I felt like a cornered animal searching for an escape. I glanced at the screen. Clara Vance. My heart stopped. The woman whose meeting I had cancelled on weeks ago. The woman who had shown up at my studio unannounced last week, wanting to see my fragmented series. I had told her I was sick and had a doctor’s appointment The truth was simpler and more pathetic: I was heartbroken. "Hello?" My voice came out smaller than I intended. "Ava. Good morning." Clara's voice was sharp, audible, exactly as I remembered. "I hope I am not calling too early." "Not at all." I could feel Alex's gaze on me, polite but present. I turned slightly, giving myself the illusion of privacy. "The meeting is today” "Yes, I would like to see the fragmented series and also …… discuss a proposal. "T

The weeks that followed I found myself repeating a strange kind of routine.I would wake up before the sun, before my brain could remember why it hurt to be awake. I would make coffee that I didn’t taste and force down toasted bread that felt dry down my throat.Then I would grab my bag and walk to the studio before I could talk myself out of it.The studio became my shelter. I needed to make Clara Vance work.Twelve canvases waited for me, blank and patient. They didn't care about my broken heart. They didn't care that I hadn't slept or that I had cried in the shower that morning until the water ran cold. They just sat there, white and expectant, waiting for me to turn my pain into something they could wear.And I did.I painted Austin.Not his face exactly. Something more honest than that. I painted his absence. I painted the way the light looked different after he left me. I painted the sound of a phone that doesn't ring. I painted the weight of words I never got to say.One canvas