The gallery lights glint off the champagne flutes as I stand in front of my latest work, Midnight Blue—a contradiction of warm yellows and golds that critics have called "achingly beautiful and melancholic." It's opening night, the pinnacle of my career so far, but all I can think about is escaping the crowd. Four years in New York's art scene and I still haven't gotten used to the pretense—the forced smiles, the meaningful nods, the way people analyze my trauma like it's just another brushstroke.

Raven and Octavia already escaped to the bar next door, leaving me to field questions about my "emotional landscape" and "use of negative space." I need air, or at least a quiet corner away from people who think they understand my art better than I do.

I slip into the small side gallery featuring my retrospective piece, Verte—layers of blue and gray that form what looks like a forest when viewed from a distance. The room is empty, offering the solitude I crave, until I spot a figure standing in front of the canvas.

My breath catches. Even from behind, I'd recognize that posture anywhere—straight-backed, elegant, utterly familiar. She turns slowly, as if sensing my presence, and time stops.

Lexa. After four years. Here. Now.

Her green eyes meet mine, wide with what looks like surprise, but there's something else—regret, maybe, or longing. She's even more striking than I remembered, her chestnut hair falling around her shoulders, dressed in a tailored blazer that somehow makes professionalism look devastatingly attractive.

"Clarke," she says, her voice just as I recall—low, measured, with that slight rasp when she's nervous.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "Lexa. What are you doing here?"

She takes a step forward, her movements cautious, like approaching a wounded animal. "I heard about your exhibition. I wanted to see it. To see you."

Before I can respond, a woman appears at her side—beautiful, put-together, wearing a diamond ring that catches the light. My stomach drops.

"Lexa, we have to go," the woman says, placing a possessive hand on Lexa's arm and pointedly ignoring me.

Lexa's jaw tightens. "I'll be right there."

When she turns back to me, something has closed off in her eyes. "I should go."

"Lexa, wait—"

But she's already leaving, the woman at her side, their retreating figures a blur against the white gallery walls. I stand frozen, staring at the empty space where she was, the words I've rehearsed for four years—'I'm sorry,' 'Where did you go,' 'I still love you'—stuck in my throat.

The neon sign above my painting flickers on, casting blue light across my face as I whisper the truth I've carried since she left:

Everything is shit, except you love.