34. First Day Back
Samantha
It’s the first day back. My heart tightens as I head to class.
Today, everything could tip one way or the other.
In two weeks, the midyear review takes place, and I have nothing to present.
Nothing but four watercolors and the painting I started at Alexander’s place and finished just yesterday.
Nothing solid enough to convince the academic committee to let me graduate this year.
I arrive early to speak with Ms. Mainville. She’s a demanding, rigorous instructor, and we don’t always see eye to eye. She expects me to verbalize, to structure, to theorize.
I try. I’m learning.
I know that’s what’s expected of fifth-year students, but art—I don’t explain it. I live it.
Beauty, emotion—I feel them in my gut.
She’s already there, seated at her desk, a notebook open in front of her, glasses perched on the tip of her nose.
“Good morning, ma’am. Happy New Year.”
She looks up and smiles at me.
“Happy New Year, Sam. I wish you a very beautiful artistic year.”
I step closer, my palms damp.
“Actually… I wanted to talk to you. I had a problem over the holidays.”
I explain the ransacking of the apartment, the destroyed canvases, the hours of work torn to shreds. My voice trembles despite myself, but I see it through to the end.
She listens without interrupting. When the silence settles, it’s heavy.
“I’m truly sorry this happened to you,” she says at last. “It’s a hard blow.”
She pauses, then continues, more serious:
“I won’t lie to you. Your file is fragile. Until now, it was your production that carried your work. Without it… I don’t know if a presentation before the jury is appropriate.”
My stomach knots.
“I have four months left. I can produce about twenty works. I also have photos of what was destroyed.”
She slowly shakes her head.
“You know photographs aren’t enough. And twenty-five pieces is below the minimum thirty required.”
The scenario I dreaded comes into focus.
I’m going to fail before I’ve even begun.
“I’ll check with the administration to see whether some accommodations can be arranged, so that the academic review committee can allow you to appear before them in two weeks with photographs of works that no longer exist,” she adds more gently. “But in the meantime, keep working. Don’t stop.”
“Thank you,” I say simply.
It’s not the answer I hoped for. But it’s not a definitive no.
*
The studio gradually fills up. New Year’s wishes are exchanged, kisses on the cheeks too. I try to smile.
“You okay?” Dorian asks as he settles in beside me.
“Yeah.”
A lie.
I sit in front of my blank canvas. Around me, the others get to work. The familiar sounds of pencils, brushes. The smell of turpentine. The winter light, cold and stark.
I draw a first line.
I erase it.
I try again. Nothing comes.
Ms. Mainville stops behind me.
“What matters is starting,” she murmurs softly enough that only I can hear. “It doesn’t matter if you make mistakes. Don’t let panic paralyze you. Failing is already creating.”
I nod and pick up the pencil again. A line appears. It lacks momentum, strength. Nothing like what I was doing before.
Frustration rises, burning.
My morale collapses.
I have dinner with Emelyne and Mara, then excuse myself quickly, blaming fatigue. They don’t insist.
I collapse into bed, a knot in my stomach. I wish Alexander were here. I miss him, but I don’t want to burden him with my problems. He has enough of his own. I send him a quick text—he doesn’t reply—and eventually I fall asleep.
The following days, I push myself. I produce. Slowly. Each canvas is a fight against time, against the fear of not making it.
Then comes the meeting.
Ms. Mainville.
Mr. Da Silva, head of academics.
Ms. Yin, deputy director of studies.
They lay out their proposal: document the lost works, precisely describe those I intend to produce, explain my intentions. The academic committee will decide mid-January whether I can continue the year…
Two weeks.
Extra work.
A verdict hanging in suspension.
I return to the apartment at the end of the day, drained. The girls aren’t back yet. The silence crashes down on me.
My phone is in my hand before I even realize it.
It’s six p.m. I want to call Alexander. To hear his voice, but that would be selfish—at this hour he must still be at the office.
I set my bag down, take out my sketchbook, and start working.
But deep inside, a dull, uncomfortable certainty takes hold: I’m losing my footing.
*
When Friday evening arrives, I’m exhausted.
As planned, Alexander comes to pick me up.
Our exchanges have been sparse this week: a few messages, often late.
He always replies, even if it’s several hours later.
He’s trying to be there for me, but he’s also completely overwhelmed—I can see it clearly.
His work consumes him entirely, and I understand.
It’s the culmination of so many years of effort that’s at stake for him.
Despite our fatigue, we make a public appearance to maintain our credibility: a dinner at the Four Seasons Hotel George V. The food is exquisite, and the setting is sumptuous.
After dinner, we go back to his place, the penthouse.
We make love passionately. He’s both tender and intense. But as sleep pulls me under, I can’t help feeling a pang in my chest, an emptiness I shouldn’t feel as I fall asleep in the arms of the man I love.
Saturday morning, breakfast is quiet, almost gentle. We’re happy to be together again, but from the first few minutes, I sense a disconnect. We’re both elsewhere, preoccupied, unavailable.
His phone rings. He glances at it discreetly.
“It’s David. I have to answer,” he explains. “It might be important.”
“Yeah, of course.”
I understand. I really do. And yet, I can’t help but feel disappointed. I too sacrificed work time to be here. Time I could have used more productively.
When he hangs up, an hour later, I can’t take it anymore.
“Listen, Alexander… this isn’t the right time for us.”
He clenches his jaw but doesn’t protest.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he says.
“You don’t have to apologize,” I say gently. “It’s a difficult period for both of us. I’m going to head home now. We’ll see each other after the IPO.”
He walks me back to my place.
Neither of us speaks. The weight of everything we’re not saying fills the space between us.
And when the moment comes to say goodbye, he kisses me with the force of desperation. His hands tremble slightly against my face.
“Why do I have this feeling that I’m losing you?” he murmurs, his forehead pressed against mine.
His voice breaks on the last word. And for a second, I consider going back with him, telling him everything’s going to be fine, that we’ll make it through.
But I refuse to lie to us. We deserve better than that.
“You’re not losing me. It’s just time to catch our breath and put some order back in our lives, so we can find each other again.”
He kisses me one last time.
“Goodbye, Sam. I miss you already.”
“You too.”
And as I close the door behind him, a question forces itself on me: is what we’re going through temporary… or a pattern destined to repeat itself?
Will we find our way back to each other, or will this distance keep growing until there’s nothing left?