Chiara
CHIARA
T he moment I step into school, I feel everyone’s eyes on me, as if they know what happened last night. I keep my gaze straight ahead, ignoring the stares, the whispers, and the curious glances.
I don’t acknowledge Nikolai as I pass him in the hallway, even when he calls my name. His voice is filled with concern, but I don’t care. I’m not in the mood to play nice or pretend everything is okay.
I don’t want to hear his excuses; don’t want to listen to him try to justify what he did. He can keep his twisted loyalty to himself.
As for the others, I keep my distance.
I can feel Connor’s gaze burning into my back, and can practically hear the questions forming on his lips, but I don’t give him a chance to speak. I walk faster, my footsteps echoing in the corridor, and soon enough, I’m out of his sight.
Mihai tries to catch up with me between classes, his usual smirk replaced with a frown. “, what the hell is going on? You’re acting?— ”
I cut him off with a cold stare and walk away. I don’t owe him an explanation. I don’t owe any of them anything.
Even Cat and Marina can’t get through to me. They hover nearby at lunch, exchanging worried looks, but I don’t engage. I sit alone, pushing my food around my plate, not really eating. They don’t push it, just linger around the edges, unsure of what to do. It’s like they know something’s broken between us, and they’re just waiting for me to fix it.
But I’m not in the mood to fix anything. Not today.
I make it through the day in a haze, my mind elsewhere, my body just going through the motions. But then Giovanni corners me in the hallway, blocking my path with that infuriating smirk on his face. The one that used to get under my skin, used to make my blood boil.
“Look who’s giving everyone the silent treatment,” he says, leaning casually against the lockers. “What’s wrong, ? You finally realized this place isn’t your playground? That you’re out of your depth?”
I don’t respond, don’t even look at him. I just keep walking, brushing past him without so much as a glance.
He’s not used to being ignored. “What, no comeback? No snarky remark? You’re making this too easy, Kitten. Where’s the fight in you?”
Oh, am I Kitten now?
Normally I would retaliate, but there’s no spark left in me to fight back, no energy to give him the reaction he’s clearly itching for.
He doesn’t follow me, just watches me go, and I can feel the confusion radiating off him. I don’t care. He’s just another obstacle in a day I’m trying to survive.
By the time the last bell rings, I’m exhausted, not physically, but emotionally drained. I don’t even want to go back to the Crown Suites and risk running into anyone. I need space, somewhere I can just be alone and think.
Without a second thought, I head straight to Studio 3, my sanctuary in this hellhole of a school. As soon as I step inside, I feel a small measure of relief wash over me. The familiar scent of paint and canvas ground me, the quiet space offering a reprieve from the constant noise in my head.
I grab my supplies and set up at my usual spot, not even bothering to change into my painting clothes. I just need to paint, to lose myself in the strokes of the brush and let the colors bleed out all the emotions I can’t put into words.
Hours pass, or maybe it’s only minutes. I don’t know. I’m so focused on the canvas in front of me that everything else fades away. The world narrows down to just me and the image I’m creating, the strokes of paint blending together to form something raw and real.
It isn’t until I finally step back to look at what I’ve created that I realize I’m not alone.
Leo is standing a few feet away, watching me with an intensity that sends a jolt of surprise through me. I hadn’t even noticed him come in, and for a moment, I just stand there, staring at him, trying to process the fact that I’m not alone.
I wipe my hands on my jeans, smearing paint across the fabric as I try to calm the sudden flutter of nerves in my stomach.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intended.
“Long enough,” he replies, his tone gentle, but there’s a concern in his eyes that I can’t ignore. “Are you okay, ?”
I hesitate, the automatic response of “I’m fine” on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t bring myself to say it. I’m not fine. I’m far from it. Instead, I shake my head, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me again .
“No,” I admit, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m just … dealing with something.”
He doesn’t press for details, doesn’t push me to explain. Instead, he just nods, understanding clear in his blue eyes.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But if you ever do... I’m here.”
I offer him a small, grateful smile, the first one I’ve managed all day. “Thanks, Leo.”
He grins, the expression lighting up his face in a way that makes it impossible not to feel at least a little bit better.
“Hang on, I’ve got something for you.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a sketchbook, flipping through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for.
Curious, I take the sketch from him, and when I look down at it, my breath catches in my throat. It’s me.
He’s drawn me, but not just how I look. Somehow, he’s captured everything I’m feeling in this one image—the weariness in my eyes, the tension in my posture, even the way I’m holding myself together despite everything.
It’s all there, laid bare in the delicate lines and shading.
“Leo…” I trail off, not knowing what to say. I’ve never had someone see me like this, not even when I’ve tried to explain it. “This is … wow.”
He shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I just drew what I saw.”
I look at the sketch again, my fingers tracing the edges of the paper. It’s incredible, and it’s a gift I didn’t know I needed.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it with every fiber of my being.
“I’m glad you like it,” he says, his smile widening a bit. “I wasn’t sure if I should give it to you, but you seemed like you could use a little pick-me-up.”
I manage a small smile in return, feeling a bit lighter than I have all day. “You have no idea. ”
We stand there in comfortable silence for a moment, the tension from earlier easing away as I look at the sketch again. It’s a reminder that maybe not everyone here is out to screw me over, that there are still good people in this twisted world.
Leo breaks the silence first, glancing at the canvas I’ve been working on. “Do you mind if I take a look at what you’re painting?”
I hesitate, but then I nod. “Sure, but it’s not finished yet.”
He steps closer to the canvas, his eyes scanning the image with the same intensity he used on his sketch. I watch him closely, wondering what he sees, what he’s thinking.
“You’re really talented, you know that?” he says after a moment, his voice sincere. “This is … it’s powerful, . You have a gift.”
His words warm me, but I can’t help the self-deprecating chuckle that escapes. “Thanks, but I’m not sure if I’d call it a gift. It’s more like therapy.”
“Sometimes, that’s exactly what makes it a gift,” Leo counters, his gaze meeting mine. “You’re able to pour all your emotions into something beautiful, something real. Not everyone can do that.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just nod, a lump forming in my throat. It’s been a long time since anyone has made me feel seen, truly seen. And in this moment, Leo does.
We spend a few more minutes talking, the conversation light and easy, a welcome distraction from everything that’s been dragging me down. When we finally pack up our things and head out, I feel a little less alone, a little more grounded.