Chapter 3: The Paint Between Us

The art room had become their unspoken meeting spot.

Even after the history project was over, Layla and Jayden found themselves back there after school—sometimes sketching, sometimes just sitting in silence as sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting long shadows on the paint-splattered floor. There was comfort in the quiet. I don't have to explain too much.

One Tuesday afternoon, Jayden was bent over a canvas, his curls falling into his face as he worked. Layla perched on a stool beside him, watching the image unfold—soft outlines of a city skyline at sunset, the kind that looked like it might hum with secrets. His brush slowed when he realized she was watching.

“Have you ever thought about showing your work?” she asked.

Jayden froze, the question landing heavier than she intended. “Nah,” he muttered, dipping his brush in ochre. “It’s just for me.”

“But it’s good,” she said. “Like... really good.”

He gave her a quick glance, then looked away. “You don’t get it.”

“Then help me get it.”

Jayden set the brush down and leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “I used to draw for people. Competitions, birthday cards, even murals back in middle school. But once people know you’re good, it’s like—suddenly everyone has a vision for you. They stop seeing you. They only see what you make.”

Layla nodded slowly. “My old dance coach was like that. I’d choreograph a routine, and she’d tweak everything to make it more ‘audience-friendly.’ After a while, I didn’t know whose moves I was dancing anymore.”

Jayden’s eyes softened. “Yeah. That.”

She stood, walked over to the drying rack, and lifted a painting he’d stashed behind a few half-finished canvases. It was different—realistic and tender. A girl on a train, her hand pressed to the glass, the city whirring past in reflection. Her eyes looked tired. Hopeful. Haunted.

“Is this me?” Layla asked quietly.

Jayden stood quickly, flustered. “I—I didn’t mean to be weird. You looked like that once. First day. I just... it stuck with me.”

Layla traced the edge of the canvas. “You saw that much in a glance?”

“You stood out,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward this time. It was loaded.

Jayden took a step back. “There’s a student art show next month. Mr. Lang says I should enter. I haven’t told anyone else. Just thinking about it makes me want to puke.”

Layla smiled. “Then let me help. I’ll be your practice audience. Your mirror. Your hype squad.”

Jayden looked at her, and something flickered across his face—vulnerability, maybe even trust. “Okay,” he said. “But only if you promise not to lie.”

“I don’t lie about things that matter,” she said.

And just like that, something shifted. Something new. Something fragile and real.

The paint between them wasn’t just art anymore. It was understanding.

It was the beginning.

The art room was quiet except for the soft scratch of pencils and the occasional creak of a chair. Layla had stayed late—not because she had to, but because Jayden was there.

He didn’t talk much while he worked, and Layla had grown to like that. It wasn’t silence filled with tension. It was the kind that made her feel like she could breathe.

She wandered over to where he was shading the corner of a canvas. “Do you always draw people?”

He glanced up. “Mostly. Faces. They say things before mouths do.”

Layla leaned on the edge of the table. “So what does mine say?”

Jayden hesitated, then met her eyes. “That you’re braver than you act. And sadder than you let on.”

She swallowed, caught off guard. “That’s... kind of accurate.”

He offered a shy smile. “You don’t have to talk. Just... sit. It helps me focus.”

So she sat. And after a while, she closed her eyes. She didn’t know if she was falling asleep or falling into something else.

When she opened them again, he was finishing a sketch—her head tilted back slightly, eyes closed, like peace had finally visited her for a moment.

Layla looked at it, then looked at him.

“I feel like I’m being seen for the first time.”

Jayden didn’t say anything. But his pencil never stopped moving.

Saturday afternoon was all soft snow and thick jackets. Jayden had invited Layla to the winter festival downtown—something small, with food trucks, local art, and a fire pit where kids roasted marshmallows.

They walked side by side, hands in pockets, both pretending the other wasn’t inches away.

“This is nice,” Layla said, sipping cider. “I forgot what normal felt like.”

Jayden chuckled. “Define normal.”

“Not looking over my shoulder. Not second-guessing every step. Not feeling like I’m wearing someone else’s life.”

He nodded, quiet for a moment. “I used to hate crowds. I still kind of do.”

She glanced at him. “Why?”

Jayden stopped walking. “I had a twin brother.”

Layla’s heart paused. “Had?”

“He passed away two years ago. Car accident. I was supposed to be in the car, but I was sick. Since then... I’ve felt like I’m only half here.”

She didn’t know what to say. So she reached for his hand and held it.

Not because she had the right words.

But because sometimes being there was the only answer.

Jayden didn’t pull away.

And that night, as snow began to fall again, Layla realized something:

This boy wasn’t just helping her find pieces of herself.

She was helping him feel whole again, too.