30. Callum #2
Normally, the thought of someone doing that would tighten my chest with nerves, but instead I find that I like it. With her here, it feels less like drowning in my own head and more like sharing the lifeline we created when words couldn’t suffice.
The last chord fades, humming softly against the wood before it dies away. I finally look up and tears brim in her hazel eyes, catching the gold of the setting sun.
My heart kicks hard at the sight, panic flaring at what I did to make her cry. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
She waves a hand, already wiping at her cheeks with the back of her fingers and sniffling.
“No. Don’t apologize.” Her voice wavers, but she steadies it with a breath. “I’d really like to hear the words to accompany that piece one day. That was so moving, even without them.”
My chest tightens, the strings under my fingers buzzing faintly with the tremor in my hands.
“I never want to be the reason you cry again,” I blurt before I can stop myself, unflinching even as my heart pounds. “My heart can’t take the sight of it.”
For a breath, the room is silent and I watch as she begins to shut down, tucking away Briar and falling back into the memories of why I’d ever say that to her.
Quickly I attempt to scramble and save her from falling into that, while wanting to kick myself for even voicing my thoughts.
I draw in a slow inhale, steadying myself.
“But hearing you say that it moved you…it means more than I can put into words. Sharing that with you and knowing it reached you emotionally, it’s…
” I trail off, shaking my head as if I can dislodge the weight of the truth building in my chest. “It’s everything. ”
She sniffles once, drawing in a breath to steady herself, and I watch the flicker of composure slide back into place. “You’re right. It is everything,” she murmurs softly. “The best compliment to an artist is the knowledge that someone else feels the emotions they’ve put into their work.”
Her gaze drops to the sketchbook still resting in her lap. Her fingers brush the edge of the cover, hesitating, like she’s caught between slamming it shut or pushing it toward me. When she finally looks back up, there’s a vulnerability in her eyes I’ve never seen directed at me before.
“Do you…want to see some of my sketches?” she asks, the words careful, almost nervous, like she isn’t sure if she should trust me with them.
I know how much weight sits in that single question. Sharing your work is sharing a piece of your soul.
It’s a gift.
I swallow, careful not to let my voice come out too rough. “Yeah,” I say softly. “I’d really like that.”
She bites her lip, then pushes up from where she’s been curled against the wall. Each step across the room makes my pulse climb, until she lowers herself onto the floor beside me. The scent of her–lavendar soap and pencil lead–wraps around me as she settles close enough that our arms brush.
Her sketchbook rests across her knees, her fingers opening the cover before she turns it toward me.
Slowly she flips through the pages, showing me a broad array of pieces.
There are faces caught mid-scream, eyes blazing with fury, fragments of wings and clawed creatures, and in between the chaos of those, self-portraits that steal the air from my lungs.
“Briar…” Her name slips out before I can stop it, my chest tight. My fingers ache to trace the page and the wonder in her eyes there, but I don’t dare. “These are incredible.”
Her cheeks blush a beautiful shade of pink, and instead of brushing me off with a remark like I expect, she lets out a small breath and nods. “Thanks. But I’m just self-taught. I know I have a lot of room to grow.”
Her fingers toy with the corner of the page, her gaze tracing the lines of her own work as though she’s judging it harsher than anyone else would.
“That’s why I wanted to go to NYU in the first place.
The paranormal realm doesn’t value the arts the way humans do.
Here, it’s politics, lineage, and survival skills.
” Her lips press together for a beat, and then she tilts her head slightly, her tone softening.
“Maybe it’s because human lives are shorter.
They don’t have countless centuries to worry about, so they seek out beauty in the fleeting moments they’re alive.
I think for them, art is proof of being alive and sharing how it impacts each person. ”
The words hang between us, the moment heavier than I ever expected to find myself in when I followed the path toward the music earlier.
For a few minutes I can’t answer. I mull over her words and her outlook between the differences in our people.
The sun has dipped low enough that the last of its light pours through the windows, basking everything in an amber hue. The moment is surreal, but not because of the beautiful light in this sanctuary of arts.
It’s her.
The way she sits here, hazel eyes unguarded, speaking truths she didn’t have to share. The way she bares herself through the lines of graphite and the tremor of her voice, offering me a glimpse of her soul when the world’s already taken so much from her.
She is more beautiful than I’ve ever let myself admit. Not just because of her exterior, but because she’s still creating. Allowing herself to feel and finding ways to turn her pain into art.
My chest tightens until I’m nearly breathless, caught between awe and the ache of knowing how little I deserve to sit in this moment with her. Her gaze flicks up, catching me in the act of staring, but instead of rolling her eyes or shutting me out, she holds it.
For a long, quiet moment, we just look at each other. I mean really look. Not as the girl who was captured, not as the boy who stood by, but as two people trying to make sense of the world around us. Somehow in that silence, something shifts and it feels like we see each other a little clearer.
The words slip free before I can stop them, bubbling up from my heart. “Art comes in a thousand forms, Briar, but the most breathtaking piece I’ve ever seen is you.”
She scoffs, quick and dismissive, but the faint blush dusting her cheeks once again betrays her.
I shake my head, pressing on and needing her to hear it.
“I mean it. You’re like a mosaic being rebuilt from the jagged pieces life has left behind.
The way you still have this softness and appreciation for life buried beneath all that fire, after all you’ve experienced.
It’s the kind of beauty that stops me in my tracks and makes me want to hold you and shield you.
To make sure nothing ever gets to dim your light again. ”
Her eyes shimmer, tears gathering before she can blink them away. She looks at me like I’ve cracked something wide open inside her, and when she finally speaks, her voice is a broken whisper.
“My mom’s favorite thing to pass on was something her grandmother told her, and she made sure to tell me growing up. Never dim your shine for someone who thinks they’re going to be burned by your greatness. The right person for you will put on sunglasses and bask in your glow. ”
Her shoulders bow ever so slightly, as if the weight of that specific memory presses too heavy to bear alone. She’s opening herself to me–baring a part of her heart–and after everything I allowed her to endure in silence, I will be damned if I don’t reach out and attempt to console her now.
My hand lifts with a hesitance I hate, every muscle tense as though expecting her to flinch from the contact, but I press on and let my palm settle gently over hers. For a single suspended heartbeat I brace myself for rejection and for her to shake my hand off.
Instead, her fingers move, threading between mine with a certainty that steals the air from my lungs. The feeling of her skin against mine sears, and the smallest squeeze of her hand feels like forgiveness I don’t deserve.
She shifts closer, the curve of her body brushing mine before her head lowers to rest against my shoulder.
The weight is light, barely there. Every muscle in me aches to hold her, to draw her fully into my arms, but I force myself to remain still, to simply exist in this fragile peace she’s chosen to share with me.
Together we sit, wordless and watching the last rays of the sun bleed across the horizon. Gold fades to crimson, then to the deep indigo of oncoming night, and still I do not move.
For the first time since before my mother was killed, silence doesn’t feel like a prison closing in. It feels like freedom and hope of new beginnings.
I draw in a steady breath, the promise already etched into my bones before I speak it aloud. “We’re going to get her back, Briar. Your mom. No matter what it takes, we’ll bring her home.”
I will give up everything to make that come true.