8. Nina
Chapter eight
Nina
Today, I was going to finish my painting. Afterwards, I’d put the finished piece online and try to find a buyer because I needed the cash.
LOL. No, I don’t. But it feels good to say that.
The area of my room I’d turned into my workspace was soaked with paint. I’d covered the walls around with plastic sheeting taped down to the floors to protect from stains, and now I was confident that I could drape the canvas in paint without worrying about damaging anything else.
I didn’t mind the smell of paint, sharp and chemical. I’ve grown accustomed to having it on my skin. It felt clammy and itchy and sometimes it got into places it had no business in, but it was a welcome addition to my madness.
Grabbing a sponge, I soaked it in blue paint and dabbed it on the canvas. My favorite K-pop band, Stray Kids, played in the background on my iPad. I mouthed the English lyrics as I worked and hummed the Korean parts.
It didn’t take long until I was completely immersed in the painting and deaf to the outside world. In my head, a destination began to form, and I chased it with every stroke of my brush as the seconds passed, until my hands felt heavy, and my knees almost gave way. But I didn’t stop. The pain was one method to my madness. I needed to feel some sort of discomfort, to take myself out of my mental comfort zone if I wanted to create anything spectacular.
Hours passed. My playlist ended. My arms were completely covered in paint. My hands kept working as my lips moved unconsciously. It was all coming together. I poured every single emotion I felt onto the canvas as whirlwinds of bright and dark colors mixed together in one massive thunderstorm.
I didn’t even notice Knox leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, until I heard his voice, sharp and unexpected. “Hmm.”
“How long have you been standing there?” I asked, turning to face him, my heart skipping a beat as I realized he’d been watching me. Had I left my door open? I didn’t remember.
“Long enough to see you talk to yourself like a crazy person,” he replied.
I rolled my eyes, turning back to the painting. “I wasn’t talking to myself. I was… thinking out loud.”
“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
I ignored him, my focus already drifting back to the canvas. The colors—bold, aggressive, almost chaotic—were a reflection of everything I’d been feeling lately. Fear, uncertainty, the overwhelming sense of not being good enough. It was all there, splattered across the canvas in a mess of blues, fuchsias, and blacks.
“What is it supposed to be?” Knox asked, crossing the room to get closer.
I wasn’t sure I wanted him in my space. He was so large and intimidating and, no doubt, he was ready to verbally attack me again.
Huffing, I crossed my arms. “Does it have to be anything? It’s abstract, Knox. It’s about expression, not representation.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So, it’s supposed to be… nothing?”
I shot him a glare, feeling the frustration build. “It’s whatever you see in it. That’s the point.”
He shrugged, dismissing it too easily. “Looks like a mess to me.”
His words stung more than I cared to admit, but I forced myself to stay calm. I would not let Knox get under my skin. Not this time.
“You wouldn’t understand,” I muttered, more to myself than to him. Why would he? He was perfect. Responsible, hardworking, intelligent. He had a clear vision, and he went after it. No one would ever look at him and say he was lost or that his achievements in life were shallow because he was a nepo baby.
“Try me,” he said, and for once, his voice wasn’t mocking. It was quiet, almost curious.
I hesitated, my fingers tracing the dried paint on the canvas. How could I explain it to him? How could I put into words the way painting helped me make sense of the chaos inside my head?
“It’s…a way to work through things,” I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t always know what I’m feeling until I paint it. It’s like… sorting through a jumble of thoughts and emotions that don’t make sense until they’re on the canvas. Even then, sometimes it’s still a mess. But at least it’s a mess I can see.”
I could feel his eyes on me, studying me in a way that made me feel exposed. Vulnerable. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away from the painting.
“Why do you keep it a secret?” Knox asked, his voice still soft. “The painting, I mean. You never talk about it.”
I shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing people care about. Lindsay thinks it’s cool, but everyone else… I don’t know. They wouldn’t get it.”
“You think I wouldn’t get it?”
I glanced at him, wary of what he might say next. “Would you?”
He didn’t answer right away, and for a moment, I thought he might brush it off like he usually did. But instead, he surprised me.
“What are you working through with this one?” he asked, nodding toward the canvas.
I bit my lip, the question hanging in the air between us. Could I really tell him? Could I let him see the doubts, the fear, the mess that I usually kept hidden?
“Uncertainty, I guess,” I said finally. “Fear. Of what’s next, of not being good enough… of not having control.”
There was a pause, and then Knox stepped closer, his gaze still fixed on the painting. “You’re more in control than you think.” And there was something in his voice that made me believe he meant it.
I blinked, surprised by the softness in his tone. For once, he wasn’t teasing or mocking. He was just… honest.
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
He hesitated, then shrugged. “Maybe not. But it’s better than the alternative.”
I didn’t know what to say. Knox wasn’t one to offer comfort or reassurance. Definitely not to me. But here he was, trying—really trying—to give me something I could hold on to. And maybe that was enough.
“Are you planning on selling it?”
I snorted. “Yeah, but I’m doubtful that I’ll get a buyer. Lindsay thinks I should ask my parents for help, but I don’t want to.”
Knox didn’t reply for a few seconds. When he did, it was with a slight tilt to his head, his expression curious but guarded. “Why not?”
I stole a quick glance at him, my mind racing. He already saw me as a spoiled, clueless princess. No doubt he was pondering why I didn’t want my parents’ help so he could use it against me. Make it seem like I was some damsel in distress, pathetically refusing help for no reason other than wanting attention. Well, I would not give him the satisfaction.
“No reason.” I forced a shrug, turning my face back to the canvas, a silent turmoil growing inside me. Why did I want him to see me differently? Why was I eager to please him?
The man hated me. A few kind words weren’t enough to change that. His idea of me was shrewd and he’d made it more than clear that nothing I did or said would change that. So why the fuck did I keep wishing that his perception of me would transform into something more meaningful?
Anger simmered beneath my skin, growing darker by the second. Knox judged me from the first day he met me. Not one conversation had passed between us, nor had he responded to any of my greetings for all the time I’d known him as a teenager. So who the hell did he think he was to judge me so cruelly?
He didn’t know me. He never gave me the time of day and even when he moved in here some weeks ago, he’d been nothing but rude and disrespectful. My attempts at civility were met with harshness and hostility. His mind was made up before I ever had a chance.
There was no difference between him and all the people who had ever approached me with ulterior motives. They all shared the same flaw—seeing only what they wanted to see and making superficial judgments and preconceived notions about my character as a person.
I suddenly wanted him out of my room. Out of my fucking space, out of my head. I wanted him far away from me. Somehow, he’d gotten under my skin—the very thing I was worried about. His assumptions about me hurt way more than they should, especially since those assumptions he hung over my head were the very things I’d been trying to run away from my entire life.
Hoping he’d get the memo and leave, I picked up my brush and turned back to the painting. If Knox noticed my sudden change in mood, he didn’t comment. Instead, he watched me for a few more seconds, then quietly walked out of the room, thankfully closing the door behind him.
Alone, I let out the breath I was holding, as well as the tears that had gathered in my eyes. Looking at it now through blurry eyes, the painting made little sense to me anymore. It felt like I’d done a three-sixty and ended up right where I began.
Everything mixed together—pain, anxiety, fear and the feeling of inadequacy. Knox said he would understand, but he didn’t. He just didn’t get it.
No one understood that in the end. A golden cage was still a cage.