Carter's POV
I should've known she wouldn't show.
But I still waited—just in case. Just in case she'd walk through the gallery doors, cheeks flushed from the walk, brushing her hair behind her ear like she always did when she was nervous. Just in case she'd smile and say, "Sorry I'm late," like it was nothing, and we'd pick up where we left off.
But the clock kept ticking. five thirty came and went. Six forty-five. seven My phone remained silent.
Maybe I was the idiot for thinking the spark we shared over coffee and charcoal sketches meant something. For thinking, she felt it too. The way her eyes lit up when she talked about the textures she wanted to capture.
I left the gallery with the kind of ache that settles deep, not in your chest, but lower, in that part of you that hopes even when you tell it not to. The part that remembers the cadence of her laugh and the subtle hint of jasmine that lingered after she'd gone.
I didn't plan to go to the bookstore, but somehow my feet led me there. To the narrow staircase at the back, where I knew her studio was. I stood at the bottom for a full minute, convincing myself to leave, to let it go. But I couldn't. Not without answers. Not when I still felt the echo of her words from last week: "You're the only one who understands what I'm trying to say through my art."
I climbed the stairs two at a time, heart hammering against my ribs.
The studio door was open just a crack. Golden afternoon light spilled through, dust motes dancing in the beam. I knocked gently, then pushed it wider. She was there—alone—seated by the window, pencil in hand, sketchbook on her lap. The sunlight caught in her hair, turning the edges to fire.
She looked up, startled. Her expression shifted instantly—soft surprise, then guilt, then something else I couldn't name. Something that made me hesitate. Was it longing? Fear? Both?
"You didn't come," I said, keeping my voice even despite the storm inside. "I waited."
She stood up quickly, shutting her sketchbook and setting it aside like she was embarrassed. Her hands trembled slightly. "Carter... you shouldn't be here."
"Yeah, I figured," I said, half-laughing, but it came out bitter. "I guess I just wanted to understand why." I wanted to understand how someone could make me feel so seen one moment and so invisible the next.
She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, fingers digging into her sleeves. "We barely know each other. I shouldn't have given you the wrong idea."
"The wrong idea?" I repeated, stunned. The words didn't match the woman who'd spent hours telling me about her art, who'd shown me her sketches. Her studio
She avoided my eyes, focusing instead on a point just over my shoulder. "You're just someone I met a couple of times. We shared a few conversations, that's all."
"A few conversations?" I took a step forward, confused, heartbeat roaring in my ears. "Aishwariya, we connected. You showed me parts of yourself you said you hadn't shared in years. You told me your art kept you alive during the darkest time of your life. Was that just... a hobby too?"
She flinched. Just barely, but I caught it. A crack in the facade.
"I'm getting married," she said suddenly, sharply. "In three months."
I stared at her, the familiar ache intensifying. "I know. But that never stopped you from talking to me before. From meeting me three weeks ago.telling your secret on our first meeting.
"Well, I shouldn't have," she snapped, but there was a fragility beneath the hardness. "Because whatever you think this is—was—it's nothing. It meant nothing."
The words landed like a slap. I could almost feel the sting spreading across my skin.
"You're lying," I said quietly, watching how her gaze flickered to mine, then away again. "You're scared, I get it. But don't lie to me. Not after everything."
"I'm not scared," she replied, but her voice cracked on the last word, betraying her. "I love Aaron."
Silence fell between us, heavy and thick with all the things we weren't saying.
I couldn't believe how much that sentence hurt, even though I'd suspected it from the start. Maybe I'd been foolish to hope for something else. Maybe I'd misread the lingering glances, the way her hand stayed in mine a moment too long when we'd said goodbye last time.
"If you love him," I said slowly, choosing my words carefully through the fog of pain, "then why did you keep talking to me? Why open up the way you did? Why show me the sketches you said no one else had seen?"
"Because I was confused!" she shouted, then looked away, trembling. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away angrily. "But I'm not anymore. I've made my choice."
I nodded, jaw clenched, heart twisting. The sunlight that had seemed so warm when I entered now felt harsh and exposing. "Okay then," I said, stepping back. "If that's how you feel... we shouldn't see each other anymore."
She looked down, but said nothing. Her hands were fists at her sides, knuckles white.
"Goodbye, Aishwariya."
And I walked out, each step heavier than the last, the memory of her smile fading with every breath.
I didn't look back. I couldn't bear to see if she was watching me go.
Aishwariya's POV
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, my knees gave out.
I sank to the floor, burying my face in my hands. My breath came in shallow gasps, and my chest hurt like something had cracked wide open. The sunlight that had warmed the room moments ago now felt like a spotlight on my shame.
I love Aaron.
The words tasted like poison now. Hollow. Foreign on my tongue.
But I had to say them. I had to protect what was already so precariously held together. Aaron had been with me for two years. He'd helped my father's business during a time when no one else would. He'd promised my family stability, support, and respect. And whether I liked it or not, my future was tied to his in a way I couldn't just undo.
How could I walk away from someone who had been there during my darkest times? When Papa was in the hospital and the business was failing. When we nearly lost everything.
Even if the light was beginning to burn me. Even if his touch no longer sent warmth through my veins. Even if his approval had slowly become a cage rather than comfort.
I didn't tell Carter the truth. I couldn't. That he thought Carter was dangerous, just because he just talks to me. That he made it clear—indirectly but firmly—that being with Carter, even as a friend, was a betrayal.
And that my phone had been in Aaron's hands the night Carter messaged me about meeting at the gallery.
That he blocked Carter's number and deleted every message without even telling me until after. "I'm protecting you," he'd said, kissing my forehead like I was a child. "You don't see how he's trying to pull you away from what matters."
But the part that hurt most?
Carter still came. He still wanted to talk. He stood there, asking why, his eyes holding a gentleness that made my chest ache. Looking at me like I owed him that much. And I did. God, I did. But instead of telling him the truth, I said the one thing I knew would cut deepest:
"You meant nothing."
Lies. All lies. Every word.
The way he looked at my sketches was like they were masterpieces instead of amateur attempts. The way he asked questions no one else thought to ask. The way he saw through me—through the masks, the polished smiles, the I 'm-fine lies. The way he remembered small details—how I took my tea, which songs made me cry, the name of my first dog.
Carter didn't just see my art.
He saw me. The real me, hidden beneath years of compromise and careful stepping.
And now he was gone.
Because I pushed him away. Because I told him to go. Because I was too much of a coward to take his hand and whisper what I really wanted to say: Take me with you. Show me another way to live.
I crawled toward my sketchbook, flipping open the pages I'd filled since that night at the bookstore. The ones I never showed Aaron. The ones I made because Carter reminded me that they mattered. A series of birds—some caged, some in flight. A woman standing at the edge of a cliff, arms outstretched. A pair of hands, fingers almost touching across a divide.
My fingers trembled as I picked up a pencil. I traced the lines I'd started before he came in—a figure in motion, but stuck. Caged. Reaching.
I added bars to the window.
Then erased them.
Started again.
What was I doing? Why was I letting someone else dictate who I could speak to, what I could love, what kind of life I could imagine for myself? When had I become this person—someone who would hurt another just to keep peace?
I thought about how Aaron had framed it: His father helped your father. We're family now. We owe them everything. And I believed him. I believed that obligation was love. That control was care. That sacrifice meant loyalty.
But what if it wasn't?
What if I were sacrificing something precious just to keep a promise made under pressure? What if there were more than one way to honor my family?
I remembered the way Carter's voice broke when he asked me why. The way his eyes softened when I said I loved someone else. He believed me. And still, he didn't yell. He didn't try to argue. He just... left.
Because he respected me, even when I didn't respect myself enough to tell the truth.
A part of me wished I could run after him. Just grab his arm, look him in the eye, and say, I lied. I'm scared. Please don't go. Let's find a way together.
But I didn't.
Because as much as I wanted to, I couldn't.
Not yet.
Not until I found the courage to tell Aaron the truth too. Not until I was ready to face whatever came after.
Instead, I stared out the window at the fading light and whispered into the silence, "I'm sorry, Carter." My fingers traced the shape of a bird taking flight on the page.
And I hoped, wherever he was, some part of him would know I didn't mean any of it. That behind my words was a different truth—one I wasn't brave enough to speak yet, but could perhaps draw instead.
Maybe someday, I'd show him.