Only the Second Best

It was a quiet weekend afternoon, the sun lazily dipping behind a veil of thin clouds. I was sitting on a slightly wobbly wooden bench, facing a small lake behind the villa where my dad’s best friend was hosting his birthday celebration.

All the guests were up in the front hall, speaking in business jargon and flashing polite, plastic smiles. And, as usual, I was hiding in a place that didn’t need explaining.

A small A3-sized canvas stood on a folding easel. In my hand was a fine brush, and my fingers were already smeared with oil paint. I was painting the reflection of the water and the soft glow of the afternoon light shimmering across the lake’s surface.

The colors were a mix of dusky blue, honeyed orange, and a touch of gray. Shades I found by blending whatever I felt like on the palette.

There was no sound except for the gentle strokes of my brush and the rustle of leaves swaying in the breeze. This was my world.

A small corner where I wasn’t “Tiara’s twin,” or “Señor De Carrillo’s daughter,” or “the other one.”

“I’ve never seen water look like that before. Like… calm, but also kind of sad,” a voice said. Deep, calm, and unrushed.

I flinched slightly and turned around. A young man stood there, tall and poised, wearing a white shirt and black slacks that seemed too formal for such a laid-back event. His face was calm, partly hidden beneath tousled dark hair that fell over his forehead.

I knew who he was. Or at least, I’d seen his face a few times on business news or during family dinners. Reagan Russo, the only son of the Russo Group owner, rumored to be a business genius and far too mature for his age.

He wasn’t smiling. He looked at my canvas, then into my eyes. Not with a smug look or empty small talk. But seriously. Like he genuinely wanted to know why I was painting that.

“I’m… just practicing,” I said quickly, awkwardly. “You wouldn’t get it. It’s not important.”

“Maybe not to other people,” he replied. “But the way you paint....it looks like it’s the most important thing in the world.”

I didn’t know what to say. His words weren’t flowery or sweet. But somehow, they broke through walls I didn’t even know I still had up.

Reagan stepped forward and crouched beside me. He studied the canvas again, then pointed to one part, the orange reflection on the water’s surface.

“Why’d you mix gray into this? Most people would use white, right?”

I turned to him. “Because sometimes light comes from something dark. If you mix it with white, it looks too… fake.”

He looked at me quickly. And for the first time, I felt like someone was really listening.

“Do you always talk like that?” he asked, half amused, half curious.

“I don’t talk much,” I answered honestly.

He nodded slowly. “Good. The world’s got too many people talking without thinking.”

And in that moment, somehow, I knew I was in trouble.

Not because he was handsome, though he was. Not because he was popular, smart, or had a guaranteed future. But because… he saw me.

Not as a shadow. Not as the boring twin.

But as someone real. Someone who paints and chooses gray over white.

And from that day on, I started painting more. Not just to escape the world… but to hold on to that one moment, that one afternoon.

That one conversation with a boy who might not even remember me ten years from now.

But I remember every second of it.