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Why was it so scary?

Logan was promising this wasn’t just a short-term fling…but a part of me thought—what if he decided he was done?

How could I go back to my old life?

After what felt like hours of staring into the void, I gave up. I slipped out from under the covers, a pang of longing hitting my insides when Logan rolled over and reached out his arm, like he was searching for me. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my feet hitting the cold floor. The chill sent a jolt through me, but it wasn’t enough to shake off the weight pressing down on my chest.

I padded across the room, my bare feet making soft sounds against the floorboards, and made my way down the hall to the room where my art supplies were set up. The smell of paint and turpentine greeted me as I stepped inside. Canvases were scattered everywhere, leaning against walls, piled in corners, each one of them a glimpse of my tortured psyche.

I stood there for a moment, taking it all in. Half-finished paintings, smeared palettes, and brushes that hadn’t been cleaned properly. It was a mess, unlike the rest of the condo. But in this mess, I found a strange kind of peace. Here, I didn’t have to pretend. I didn’t have to play a role or wear a mask.

I picked up a brush, my fingers closing around the familiar handle, and pulled a fresh canvas onto the easel. The brush moved almost on its own, instinct taking over as I dipped it into the paint, the strokes flowing in a way that felt both effortless and necessary. Each swipe of the brush felt like an exhale, a release of everything I couldn’t say out loud.

The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of the bristles against the canvas. I tried not to think about Logan or our ending. I tried not to think about anything but the colors—the way they blended together, the way they formed something that wasn’t quite whole but was stillsomething.

I painted until my hands ached, until the colors blurred and the shapes bled into one another. But even then, the weight didn’t lift. It never did.

I glanced around at the paintings littering the room, each one a piece of me that I kept hidden, locked away. They were the only things that made sense when everything else was falling apart. But no one would ever see them. They were mine. My private rebellion against the world that owned me.

With a sigh, I set the brush down, stepping back from the canvas. It was unfinished and dark. A reflection of me. Unfinished. Fractured. I stared at it for a long time, wondering if I’d ever feel complete. Or if I’d be stuck like this forever—just pretending, just surviving.

I didn’t have an answer.

I slipped back into the bed where Logan was still peacefully sleeping, and finally fell into troubled and restless dreams, telling myself no matter what happened, I would still be me.

Even if I didn’t know who that was anymore.

* * *

LOGAN

I didn’t know what had woken me up. Sloane was curled up on her side, her body finally still after hours of restless tossing. Last night was the first time she’d done that. The way she’d slept—like she was constantly bracing herself for something—I didn’t like it. I watched her for a minute, the rise and fall of her breathing, trying to reconcile the fragile way she slept with the way she carried herself during the day.

I tried to go back to sleep, but it wasn’t happening. Finally, I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her, and moved quietly through the condo, aimlessly wandering.

There was a door slightly ajar down the hall. She probably wouldn’t like me exploring her place without her, but it felt like there were layers of her I hadn’t even begun to see yet. I wanted to know all of her. Pushing open the door a bit more, I stepped inside.

The first thing that hit me was the smell of paint—rich and sharp, mixed with the subtle scent of something else, like turpentine. It was a studio, or at least it looked like one. Canvases were stacked haphazardly against the walls, brushes scattered on the floor, on tables. And in the middle of it all, a half-finished painting sat on an easel, of a sailboat tossing on a stormy sea. I walked over to it and realized the paint was still wet.

She’d done this at some point during the night.

I was frozen for a second, taking it all in. I’d known there was more to her than she let on, but this—this was something else. Each painting was a different piece of her, raw and visceral, like she’d poured every emotion she couldn’t express into the canvas. The colors were dark, layered, the strokes aggressive but deliberate. There was a sadness to every picture, a sense of devastation she was trying to express that I could actually feel as I studied them.

I pulled out my phone, snapping a few pictures before I could stop myself. This wasn’t the kind of manufactured art you saw on postcards. It was real, and it hit me right in the chest. I couldn’t stop myself from capturing it, like I needed proof that this part of her existed.

I moved to the next canvas, one leaning against the wall. It was half-hidden, but when I tilted it up, I felt my breath catch. The image was haunting—a silhouette of a woman standing alone, her arms wrapped around herself as if she were trying to hold herself together. Her face wasn’t visible, just shadowed, but the sadness in the image was palpable. It was like she was crumbling from the inside out, but still standing. Barely.

I took another picture, then another, my fingers moving faster as I tried to capture the details. I’d never seen anything like this. It was like she’d taken every part of herself she tried to hide and poured it into these paintings. It was mesmerizing, and I couldn’t stop.

And then I heard it—the soft creak of the floorboard behind me.

I turned, my phone still in hand, and there she was, standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was sharp, filled with something I couldn’t quite place—fear, anger, betrayal…maybe all of it.

I froze, and for a second, I felt like an idiot. “I was just…” I started, but I didn’t know how to finish. What was I doing digging through her private world without asking, like I had any right to be here?

She stepped into the room, her expression hardening. “You were just what? Going through my stuff?”