Chapter 6
The rain starts as a whisper against the skylight—soft, almost polite—
and then, as if sensing the exact moment my composure shatters, it turns violent.
Sheets of water slam against the attic windows, drowning the city noise below, leaving only the storm…
and the silence inside me.
I sit on the edge of Owen’s side of the bed—
the side he hasn’t slept on in weeks.
The pillow is cold.
Untouched.
A perfectly made accusation covered in linen.
My phone is still in my hand, screen dark, but I can’t let go of it.
Maybe because it holds everything I’ve been trying not to break down over.
The photos from the exhibition.
The messages I never answered.
The review that gutted me.
Julian Croft’s words burn behind my eyelids like they’re carved into the back of my skull:
“Derivative. Emotionally juvenile. A desperate attempt at relevance from an artist clearly past her moment.”
I had read it once.
Then twice.
Then ten times, because some kinds of pain force you to keep pressing on the bruise just to confirm it still hurts.
It does.
God, it does.
Owen wasn’t there that night.
Of course he wasn’t.
He had a “work obligation,” which I’m pretty sure is code for “somewhere Nova will be, and I can’t say that out loud.”
He didn’t even call after the review dropped.
Did he see it?
Did he care?
The rain grows louder, drumming against the windows with an urgency I wish I felt about anything anymore.
I pull my knees up to my chest, curling around the phone like it’s the last warm thing within reach.
I should be asleep.
Normal people sleep at 2 a.m.
But normal people don’t have their careers publicly sliced open and dissected by a man whose glasses cost more than their rent.
I stare at the door, half expecting Owen to walk through it, drenched from the rain, apologizing, saying he heard what happened and came running.
He won’t.
He never does.
Instead, all I have is the echo of Julian’s voice from the video interview that went viral mere hours after the opening:
“Her earlier work had potential. But tonight? It was like watching someone drown in real time.”
Funny.
Because drowning is exactly what this feels like.
Water closing over my head.
Limbs too heavy to fight.
No one on the shore calling my name.
The rain keeps coming.
Harder.
Louder.
Mocking.
I unlock my phone.
The screen flares to life, illuminating the dim attic room—
paint-splattered floors, unfinished canvases leaning like broken soldiers, Owen’s untouched shoes by the door.
A message sits at the top of my notifications.
From him.
But when I open it, my stomach drops.
It’s not an apology.
Not a “I’m sorry I missed it.”
Not even a “How are you holding up?”
Just four words.
Cold.
Efficient.
Emotionally vacant.
Running late again tonight.
My grip tightens.
The phone trembles.
I almost hurl it across the room, but I don’t—
because the pathetic truth is that even now, even after tonight, a part of me still hopes he’ll show up.
Lightning flashes, illuminating the window.
My reflection stares back:
hollow eyes, mascara smeared, hair a mess—
a woman who spent all her hope on someone who didn’t even bother to check if she survived the fall.
A single tear slips down my cheek.
Not dramatic.
Not cinematic.
Just tired.
I lie down on Owen’s cold, empty side of the bed, curling into the space where he should’ve been.
The storm rages on, cruel and relentless, and above me, the ceiling feels unbearably heavy—
like the whole world is pressing down, waiting for me to break completely.
Maybe I already have.