Charlie
A few weeks later
Life has settled into a rhythm I can almost trust again.
I go to the therapy circle on Tuesdays and Fridays, even when it hurts to sit across from Hunter’s empty chair.
I go to pole class with Lucy three times a week, spinning until my muscles burn and my head goes quiet.
I show up for my shifts at the art store, helping customers find the perfect shade of paint while Mrs. Lovelady sneaks me slightly damaged supplies like always.
I’m trying. Really trying.
But every night I end up in front of my easel.
I’ve painted Hunter more times than I can count.
Some are soft—him asleep on my couch with Sofia on his chest, the morning light across his scars.
Some are darker—shadows and tension, the way his eyes looked right before he pinned me down.
Some are just fragments: his hands, the line of his jaw, the way his shoulders curved when he held me like I was something precious.
Tonight, I’m finishing the last piece.
It’s Hunter standing next to the fountain right after I told him we both needed to heal—shoulders tense, hands in his pockets, watching me with pain in his eyes. The colors are deep and moody, but there’s a sliver of warm light cutting across his face. Hope, maybe. Or regret.
I set the brush down and step back, wiping my hands on an old rag. The portfolio is spread across my living room floor—twenty pieces, some finished, some raw sketches, all of him. My heart feels too big for my chest as I look at them.
Lucy lets herself in without knocking, carrying takeout like she does every Thursday. She stops in the doorway, eyes widening as she takes in the scene.
“Jesus, Charlie… you finished it?”
I nod, suddenly nervous. “Yeah. Just now. I think… I think it’s ready.”
She sets the food down and walks slowly through the paintings, taking her time with each one. When she reaches the last piece, she stops for a long moment.
“These are incredible,” she says quietly. “Raw. Honest. A little heartbreaking.” She turns to me, eyes shining. “You have to submit this. The gallery on Broadway by East 4th Street has that open call for emerging artists. Deadline is tomorrow. You should do it.”
I chew on my lower lip, arms wrapped around myself. “It feels… exposing. Like I’m putting everything I felt for him on a wall for strangers to see.”
Lucy steps closer and takes my hands.
“That’s what makes it powerful,” she says gently. “You turned pain into something beautiful. That’s what art is supposed to do. And maybe…maybe putting it out there will help you let go a little.”
I look back at the paintings. At all the versions of Hunter I couldn’t stop creating.
“I still miss him,” I admit, voice small. “Even after everything. Even knowing we both need to heal.”
“I know, babe.” She pulls me into a hug, squeezing tight. “But missing him doesn’t mean you have to wait for him. You can heal and create and live your life. And if he ever gets his shit together…he’ll know exactly where to find you.”
I hug her back, letting myself breathe for a moment.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll submit it.”
Lucy grins against my shoulder. “That’s my boy.”
She pulls back but doesn’t let go completely, keeping her hands on my arms as she looks at me with that mix of pride and worry she’s perfected over the years.
“I’m really proud of you,” she says softly. “I know you think you still need to heal, but I think you’re doing just fine.”
I glance around at the sea of Hunter’s faces and bodies surrounding us on the floor. All of them are pieces of my heart I’m about to hand over to strangers.
“It feels scary,” I admit. “Like I’m putting my whole messy feelings on display. What if people see right through me?”
Lucy squeezes my arms gently. “Then they’ll see someone who loves deeply, even when it hurts. That’s not a weakness, Charlie.”
I lean my forehead against hers for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of her coconut shampoo and the faint chalk from pole class.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I whisper.
“You’d be a mess,” she teases, but her voice is thick. “A beautiful, talented, dramatic mess. But you’d still be you. But you’ll never need to find out, because you have me for the rest of your life.”
I laugh, the sound watery but real. “Promise?”
“Always.” She pulls me into another tight hug, rocking us slightly. “You’re going to be okay. Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.”
We stay like that for a long minute, just holding each other in the middle of my living room surrounded by paintings of the man I’m still not over.
Eventually she pulls back, wiping at her eyes with a dramatic sniff. “Okay, enough of this. Pack up that portfolio before I start ugly crying and ruin my mascara. Then we’re eating ice cream and watching trash reality TV until you fall asleep on the couch.”
I smile, small but genuine, and nod.
After she leaves later that night, I pull out all of my work and sit on the floor surrounded by every painting and sketch of Hunter I’ve done. I carefully package them up, write the submission letter with shaking hands, and print it out before I can talk myself out of it.
I package it all up for tomorrow, taking one last look at the final painting by the fountain. It’s the end of the story. The bitter end.
“I hope you’re healing, too,” I whisper into the quiet room before sliding the painting into the portfolio package.
Then I turn off the lights, curl up in bed with Sofia, and watch the lights pass on the ceiling until sleep takes me.
The next afternoon, I stand outside the small gallery on Broadway with the heavy portfolio tucked under my arm like it might burn me if I hold it too long.
The building is unassuming from the outside—clean white walls, large windows, a simple black sign that reads “Yates Art Gallery.” A small placard in the window announces their open call for emerging artists. Deadline: Today.
My hands are sweating. My heart is hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. I almost turn around three different times on the trip here.
But I don’t.
I push open the door.
The inside smells like fresh paint and polished wood. Soft lighting, clean lines, a few pieces already hanging. A woman with bright and styled glasses and a warm smile looks up from the desk.
“Hi, are you here for the open call?”
I nod, throat tight. “Yeah. I… I have a series I’d like to submit.”
She gestures to a table near the back. “You can lay them out there if you’d like. I’ll take a look when you’re ready.”
I carefully unpack everything. One by one, I set Hunter’s face down on the white surface.
From the beginning to the end. The soft morning one with Sofia on his chest. The shadowed, intense one from the alley.
The vulnerable charcoal sketch I did the morning after our first kiss.
The darker, more turbulent pieces that show the storm I felt when he pinned me down.
When the last one is out, I step back.
The woman comes over and studies them in silence. She takes her time, tilting her head, moving between pieces. I feel exposed. Like she’s seeing every raw, messy feeling I poured into them.
After a long minute, she looks at me.
“These are very personal,” she says gently.
I nod. “They are.”
She smiles. “They’re powerful. There’s real emotion here. Longing, love, pain…it’s all there. We’d love to include a few in the emerging artist showcase in three months. Would you be open to that?”
I blink, surprised. “Really?”
“Really.” She hands me a form. “Fill this out. We’ll need titles, dimensions, and a short artist statement if you’re comfortable. You can be as vague as you want—some artists just write ‘Untitled, oil on canvas’ and that’s enough.”
I take the form with shaking hands.
As I fill it out, I glance back at the paintings. At Hunter’s face staring back at me from so many angles.
I write a short statement at the bottom:
“These pieces are about wanting someone who makes you feel seen, even when it terrifies you. About love and fear and the space between them.”
I sign my name at the bottom and hand everything over.
The woman smiles again. “We’ll be in touch. Thank you for trusting us with these.”
I walk out of the gallery feeling lighter than I have in weeks. Not healed or over him. But like I’ve taken something painful and turned it into something that might live outside of me now.
On the walk home, I pull out my phone and open the chat with Hunter for the first time in days. I don’t type anything. I just stare at his last message, then slip the phone back into my pocket.
Some things you have to let go of, even if they still feel like home.
I keep walking, the late afternoon sun warm on my face, one small step closer to becoming the version of myself I want to be.