Chapter 2, Mira
The gallery is almost silent now, the last of the visitors long gone. The only thing I hear is the soft sound of the air conditioning with the quiet click of my heels on the polished floor as I make my last round. I wipe down the counter for the second time, even though it is already spotless. The routine helps me clear my overthinking mind.
I check the clock—nearly 8:30 p.m. Julian texted me earlier, asking if I would be home soon. Always trying to control the uncontrollable.
Sighing, I walk over to the painting that has been on my mind all week, the one I have been agonizing over. A simple street I painted a long time ago.
I step back to take it all in—the brushstrokes, the colors, the story behind that dream I still do not quite understand. There is a subtle beauty in it that calms me and makes me forget everything else for a dear moment.
The light flashes, creating a shadow over the canvas, and I blink, pulling myself out of the trance. The nagging feeling that has been following me all day returns.
I shake my head, trying to dismiss the feeling. Still, the sense of being watched lingers, creeping from the dark corners of the room. I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone standing there, yet the place remains empty.
I breathe in deeply, trying to calm the rush of thoughts that have gathered in my mind. Even with a slow exhale, I cannot get rid of them—it is there, just under the surface.
My hand brushes the side of the counter, the action mechanical, as if moving through the motions will help me push this anxiety away.
Julian always tells me there is nothing, just my mind running wild… Though I am not so sure anymore.
I grab my fake black fur coat and lock the door behind me, stepping out into the cool night air. New York at this hour usually feels more oppressive, in a calming sense somehow. I make my way down the street. The unease stays with me, crawling up my spine, each step filled with the sense that something is poised to strike.
I shake the feeling off, focusing on the streetlights ahead. I keep walking, trying to get free of the nervousness gnawing. The lampposts flicker overhead as I pass one empty storefront after another. The usual comfort of the familiar neighborhood looks distant tonight, swallowed by the heavy silence.
I am halfway down the block when I feel it again—that shift in the atmosphere, a breath of air that has been sucked from the night. I keep moving, the awareness prickling at my skin, pushing me onward. My pace quickens instinctively. Then, as I round a corner, I nearly collide with someone.
He moves back just in time, barely making a sound. I look up, my breath caught in my throat, as I see a figure standing beneath the streetlamp—tall enough to loom over me, his features shrouded in the dim glow. A hood casts a shadow over most of his face and his hands are dressed in tight leather gloves, the kind worn by someone accustomed to concealing both touch and intent.
“Sorry,” I mutter, pulse still uneven.
He stays silent. Just continuing walking, his steps eerily soft against the concrete. His presence haunts my mind long after he disappears into the night. The way he moved—effortlessly, a shadow stretched too thin. Almost becoming part of the darkness itself.
I shake off the thought and keep walking. Just another stranger in the city. Nothing more. And yet, the feeling of being watched clings to me like a second skin.
By the time I get home, my mind is a tangled mess. Chaotic, restless. Julian is waiting on the couch, his expression familiar. Stable. A stark contrast to the storm in my head.
I force a smile, even though it feels distant, watching myself from the outside. I want to be alone—to unravel the restlessness that followed me through the streets.
When he steps into the bathroom looking for me, I undress in silence. The moment my shirt slips from my shoulders, I flinch, my arms instinctively crossing over my chest.
Julian watches me, confused, mostly impatient. He unbuttons his jeans, the soft scrape of fabric against skin filling the space between us.
Before I can protest, he presses me against the wet shower wall, scalding water running down my back. His lips claim mine—urgent, demanding. Sadly, all I feel is the cold detachment settling deep in my bones.
The image of the stranger suddenly invades my skull. I know nothing about this mysterious encounter, nor the color of his eyes or the sound of his voice. Yet my imagination takes great pleasure in recreating the missing elements that helped form the growing goosebumps on my legs.
Julian’s mouth moves lower, his breath hot against my throat. I am not feeling him though. I feel a gloved hand closing around my neck. Fingers tightening, letting my poor mouth gasping.
Julian’s hard cock slides between my thighs. His body presses forward. But the sensation feels off. As if it is happening to someone else.
I have been struggling for a while to get passionate. Anxiety maybe, I don’t know… He is getting tired of it, which is understandable.
The unsettling thoughts are flowing through my head while my movements start to get detached. I feel my mind flying away, so does Julian’s patience. I can see his anger bubbling up, his jaw clenching, the muscles in his neck visibly tensed. His eyebrows furrow deeply over his eyes as he starts to growl.
“I’ve been more than patient with you.”
“I know…” I say, just as my lip starts trembling. The hot water is still pouring, covering up my incoming tears.
“I will do better next time, I promise…”
Julian chuckles, getting more distant, clearly disappointed.
“Sure, babe. Sure…”
I begin to wash my red hair, crying softly and silently just as he pushes furiously through the glass door to get out into the cold bathroom.
I am so useless and incompetent. The same way I have been three to four nights a week for months now.
What kind of girlfriend am I if I cannot give him what he needs?
A shitty one, that’s who.