Chapter 3: Sketches of Who We Were

I watched him pack the night before he left, folding his shirts with military precision, tucking his sketchbooks into his backpack. I tried to hide my disappointment, but he caught me staring and kissed my forehead. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised, but his voice sounded worn out, like he was already halfway gone.

The day before his birthday, I called him. He said he was at the hotel and everything was fine. After that, there wasn’t much to say. The call was full of awkward silences, static, and background noise—voices, laughter, the clatter of something dropping. It felt like he was already somewhere else, even though I was right there on the line.

“Do you want me to come for your birthday? I can take a day off, it’s no problem.”

“I’m not celebrating.”

“No need for you to come.”

His tone was as cold as ever, maybe even colder over the phone. I could almost see him staring at the ceiling, bored, waiting for me to hang up.

I stared at my reflection in the window, city lights blurring and swirling. For a second, I wondered if I should just let him go, if I was the only one still holding on.

…

I took a breath and fell silent. There was nothing left to say.

The line buzzed with static, and I waited for him to say something—anything—but he just sighed and hung up. I set my phone down, feeling emptier than before, like I’d just lost a piece of myself.

Mason told me not to come. But I went anyway.

I booked the ticket on a whim, stuffing my backpack with snacks and a change of clothes. The train ride was long and noisy, full of strangers chatting about their weekend plans. I pressed my forehead to the window, watching the world blur by, wondering if I was being brave or just stupid.

Getting off the Amtrak, I looked at the crowd and wondered if I was crazy to like him this much. Maybe I just needed to prove something. The cake I carried was homemade. I guess I was just used to spending every birthday with him. I couldn’t imagine not being there for his birthday.

The bakery box weighed heavy in my hands, the frosting threatening to smear every time someone bumped me. I clutched it like a lifeline, my heart pounding as I made my way through the unfamiliar city streets, every step a mix of hope and dread.

I called him, but he didn’t answer. It was the first day of the exhibition, so I figured he must be busy and went straight to the venue to find him. Sure enough, the place was packed. Many colleges were participating, and the students were full of energy. Mason was already a bit of a name in art circles—he’d been the top scorer in our school’s entrance exam. Compared to him, I was the kind of person who had to work day and night just to keep up. In the end, I’d barely made it into this school…

The gallery was buzzing—people snapping photos, professors debating, students crowding around the best pieces. I spotted Mason across the room, surrounded by a group of admirers. He looked so confident, so at ease, like he belonged there in a way I never could. I stood on tiptoe, trying to catch his eye, but he was lost in the crowd.

I finally spotted Mason in the crowd. Only five people from his department were chosen to exhibit, and they were all top students. I wanted to go up to him, but there were too many people, and I got pushed out of the way. He always seemed so distant, until a girl beside him started talking to him. I watched from across the crowd as he bent down to hear what she was saying. Suddenly, he seemed so far away from me. I couldn’t remember when we’d grown so distant—or maybe, we’d always been far apart.

The girl was laughing, her hand brushing his arm as she pointed at something on his canvas. I felt a sharp pang of jealousy, but I couldn’t blame her—he was magnetic, impossible not to notice. Still, it stung to watch him smile at someone else, even if it was just for a second.

I realized then that just getting close to him was harder than I thought. All I could do was call him. I called over and over, my thumb sore, before he finally picked up.

“What is it?”

I watched him step aside to answer, but when I opened my mouth, I couldn’t bring myself to say it: Mason, I came to see you.

I was silent for a long time. He sighed. “Wrong number?”

“Mason… can I spend your birthday with you?” I gripped my phone like it was my last lifeline, voice trembling.

“No need. Today is really busy. I don’t have time for a birthday.”

…Always busy. There was noise in the background, and soon someone came to get him.

“I’m hanging up.”

I wanted to stop him, but all I heard was the beeping of the disconnected call.

I stood in the middle of the gallery, the cake box digging into my palm, feeling smaller than ever. The noise of the crowd washed over me, but I felt invisible—like I didn’t belong in his world anymore.

…

When did Mason become someone surrounded by admirers? Since his painting was chosen by a professor during orientation, since girls started saying he was good-looking, since he became known as a top student, since no one could keep up with him, since… he had to look down just to see me. We’d gone from an ordinary couple to me struggling just to get close to him.

I remembered the early days, when we’d sneak off to the park to sketch together, sharing sandwiches and inside jokes. Now, he was out of reach—his name whispered in hallways, his art celebrated by strangers. I wondered if he ever missed those quiet moments, or if he’d outgrown them, just like he’d outgrown me.

…