not the one in red

Five Years Later

I’ve never really belonged at parties, especially the big ones, filled with people wearing clothes that cost too much and smiling a little too wide.

But that night, I was there, at the birthday party of some family acquaintance, in a luxury hotel ballroom, wearing a pale blue evening gown Mom picked out for me. Not because I wanted to be there, but because Tiara had dragged me along.

“You can’t keep hiding behind books or SketchUp screens, Tara,” she said, linking her arm through mine as we walked in. “Sometimes you have to be part of the real world.”

The “real world” she meant was one of chandeliers, champagne glasses, and young men in suits that looked like they stepped out of a cologne commercial.

I didn’t reply. Maybe because she was right. Even if my heart was still somewhere else, back in my campus studio that always smelled like paint, or in my tiny room where I sketched building designs that would probably never be built.

Two majors. Architecture and Mathematics. People said it was crazy. But they didn’t know that when I draw, I’m not just creating space. I’m trying to build a place for myself. In the real world, I’ve never quite had one.

Tiara disappeared the second we walked in, of course. This was her world. The way her red dress flowed, the way she greeted people by their full names, the way she moved like every light in the room followed her.

She got into Performing Arts at a top university, said she wanted to be a famous actress, a star, known by the world. And no one doubted her. Not even me.

I slipped away toward the balcony, a slightly quieter corner, and placed my untouched glass of soda on the wooden railing. The night air drifted in, cooling the sweat that had started to form from the crowd and the heat.

And when I turned around… I saw him.

Reagan.

It had been almost five years since that afternoon by the lake. But I recognized him instantly. His face was a little sharper now, his jaw more defined, his build stronger. But his eyes were the same. Blue. Calm. Sharp. Focused. He stood in the middle of the room, wearing a simple black suit that somehow made him look even more unreachable.

He was talking to someone, smiling softly. And when I looked closer, that someone… was Tiara.

She touched the sleeve of his suit as she laughed, and Reagan responded with a small, lopsided smile, one I’d rarely seen on him. A real smile. They looked like a scene from a movie.

Beautiful. Perfect. Like they belonged.

I didn’t know why it felt like something inside my chest was quietly splintering. It wasn’t because he was rude. It wasn’t because Tiara did anything wrong. They hadn’t done anything wrong.

But I… felt lost.

Reagan nodded at something Tiara said, and then his eyes scanned the room… and landed on me.

For a split second, time stopped.

He looked at me. I know he saw me. But what came next wasn’t a smile. It wasn’t a wave. Just… a blank stare.

And then he turned back to Tiara.

And just like that, I was a stranger again.

:::

I went home early that night, blaming a headache that never really existed. In my room, I opened my laptop and tried to work on a studio project about the roofing structure of the campus complex. But the lines I drew in AutoCAD started to bend off course.

I closed it, and picked up my sketchbook instead. Blank page. My hand moved slowly. I drew a balcony. Then a chandelier’s glow. Then two figures, standing in the center of the room, facing each other. Then a third figure, off to the side, barely in frame.

Unseen. But there.

That was me. Always there, but never really seen.

:::

I sat at the long table on the back patio, wearing a loose T-shirt and linen pants, my hair messily tied up. In front of me, the blueprint for my internship project was spread out, held down by a glass of orange juice on one side and a half-open laptop on the other. The project was part of my double-degree program in architecture and mathematics: a city park design that was both functional and beautiful for a public space in Pasadena.

“I noticed you didn’t sleep last night,” Mommy’s gentle voice broke into my thoughts.

She stepped out through the sliding glass door carrying two cups of tea and a plate of sliced fruit. Her hair was neatly pinned up, and even in a simple house dress, she always looked effortlessly elegant because of how she carried herself.

“I did sleep, Mommy,” I replied, though I knew it was an easy lie to read. “Just… thinking about the design details. Circulation flow, window placement. Architect-y stuff.”

She smiled softly, not pushing. She knew. But she never asked if I wasn’t ready to talk.

She sat next to me and leaned in to look at the blueprint. “This part’s really nice,” she said, pointing at the design of the pathway flowing into the open park area. “But are you sure you’re not using too many diagonal lines? People tend to feel more comfortable with linear movement.”

I glanced at her and couldn’t help but smile. “Are you an architecture professor now, Mom?”

“I’ve lived with you your whole life. I figured it out since you started drawing house foundations on binder paper when you were nine. Trust me, you could teach anyone about architecture.”

I let out a soft laugh. It felt warm. Gentle. Mommy had always been my safe place, not just physically, but emotionally, too. Unlike Daddy, who always emphasized achievements, grades, and status, Mommy gave me space to breathe.

I was about to respond when the sound of quick footsteps came from inside the house.

Tiara.

She appeared in the doorway with a bright face and neatly brushed hair, wearing a casual white linen dress and a denim jacket. In her hand was a small backpack. Her makeup was minimal, but just enough to give her that “rising star” glow she was growing into.

“Mom! Reagan’s picking me up any minute now!” she said excitedly, glancing at her phone. “I got a trial shoot for a short series in Santa Monica! The director said he loved my expression during the audition!”

Her smile lit up the room, and her eyes sparkled like a child who just discovered fireworks.

I didn’t say anything. My hand stayed still on the blueprint. But somehow, all those clean blue lines suddenly looked blurry. The world tilted, just a little.

“Oh, right,” Tiara added, turning to me. “You remember Reagan, right? The guy I talked to for a bit at that party? He’s giving me a ride since Daddy took my car.”

I smiled. Or… tried to. “Yeah. I remember.”

That’s all I could manage to say. While inside, it felt like something was gripping my chest.

Too tight. Too deep.

Like someone had taken my favorite painting, photocopied it, and handed it to someone else.

Tiara was already gone before I could say anything more, her steps light and her hair swaying as she crossed to the front door.

Silence.

I stared at the blueprint I could no longer make sense of. And then, from the corner of my eye, I caught Mommy watching me. Not just a casual glance. It was that look. The one that seemed to see straight into my heart. The kind that didn’t ask, but knew.

I turned to her slowly. And there she was, behind her cup of tea, looking at me… with a warmth and a quiet sadness that matched my own. As if she understood something I’d never said out loud.

“What?” I asked, trying to chuckle.

But Mommy didn’t answer. She just shook her head gently, her eyes still on me.

I sighed. “I’m fine, Mom.”

That sentence—a lie I’d used far too many times. I said it like a spell.

Mommy gave a small nod. Then glanced back at my blueprint. “If you want to add a quiet space,” she said suddenly, “put a hidden spot on the west side of the park. Somewhere someone can be alone… without feeling lonely.”

I turned to her quickly.

But she was already standing up. Carrying her teacup back inside the house, leaving me with the blueprint… and the slowly warming morning air.

I picked up my mechanical pencil. And in the far corner of the park I’d designed, I drew a small bench under a tree.

Just one bench.

Not two.

Because in the real world, not everyone sits side by side.

:::

The park on the west side of our family’s estate had always been my escape.

It was a little ways off from the main house, separated by a row of flamboyant trees and a pathway of natural stones. Ones I handpicked when the garden was renovated three years ago.

In the late afternoon, sunlight filtered through the leaves in patterns that looked almost painted.

As if God had arranged the light through the branches just for me.

On the long wooden bench I loved, I sat with my laptop open and a pen in hand. Advanced calculus homework. Infinite series and double integrals. A world full of symbols, variables, and endless logic.

Ironically, it’s where I often felt the most sane.

I didn’t hear the car pull in. But I knew Tiara was home the second her unmistakable laugh rang from the front of the house.

I didn’t look up.

I just kept my eyes on the screen.

A few minutes passed before I heard footsteps approaching the garden. Slow. Steady. Heavy.

Leather shoes hitting the grassy ground in the rhythm of a man who knew exactly where he was going. I knew it was him before I even looked.

Reagan.

I kept typing. My eyes stayed on the screen, even though the words in the problem set were starting to blur like reflections on water. When he finally stopped, just at the edge of my peripheral vision, I caught the faint scent of his cologne.

Masculine. Clean. Cold.

“Math?” he said flatly, and I caught a trace of mockery in his tone.

I turned my head slowly.

Reagan stood with his hands in his pockets. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his jacket was slung over one shoulder. His gaze was calm… but strange. Not happy to see me.

More like… judgment, wrapped in civility.

I nodded slightly. “Calculus assignment.”

He let out a quiet scoff, raising one brow. “You like torturing yourself, huh?”

I held back a smile. “I like a challenge.”

“Ah.” He folded his arms. “A challenge. Sure. That’s why you’re doing a double major. Architecture and math. To… look smart?”

I frowned. “Not to look smart. Because I enjoy it.”

He let out a short laugh. But it wasn’t warm. Not friendly. It was the kind of laugh that came with upper-class sarcasm, polished and cutting.

“Of course. Everyone says they ‘enjoy’ things they don’t actually understand. Until the real world hits, and they realize… they’ve been wasting their time.”

I closed my laptop slowly. “Is there something wrong with studying two things I love?”

He tilted his head, eyes scanning me like I was something he couldn’t quite approve of. “No. Nothing wrong. It’s just… weird. You seem like the type who spends all her time alone, intense, too deep in her head. But on the outside… you’re also trying really hard to be someone else.”

A breath slipped from my lips. “And you figured all that out from just one look?”

“Close enough,” he said, coldly.

Something pinched in my chest. Not anger.

Something worse. A kind of disappointment I knew too well.

I looked at him. Really looked at him this time. “Why don’t you like me?”

Reagan looked surprised—for a second. But he quickly masked it with a half-smile that never reached his eyes.

“I never said I didn’t like you,” he replied. “It’s just… you’re different from Tiara. Too different.”

And right there, in that one sentence, everything felt both clear and ridiculous. Of course I was different from Tiara.

We’d been different since birth.

But somehow, coming from his mouth, that difference sounded like a flaw.

I stood up, hugging my laptop to my chest.

“Thanks for the reminder,” I said, my voice tight, breath catching on the ache rising in my chest. “You can go back to the world that fits you, Reagan. I’ll stay in mine. The one you called weird.”

I walked away. Past him.  Without looking back.