Chapter 4: Brushstrokes of a New Beginning

The exhibition went smoothly. I don’t know how long Mason stayed, but I watched him the whole time. Even after the crowd thinned out, I was still holding the cake I’d made for him. Just as I was about to approach, the girl from earlier jumped up behind him and covered his eyes.

“Hey, Mason, it’s your birthday! We got a surprise for you.”

The crowd cheered, and the professor wheeled out a big cake. Clearly, he didn’t need my lopsided homemade one. Some of the audience stayed to share the cake. The scene was warm and lively, but my heart felt crushed—I could barely breathe.

I watched as Mason blew out the candles, the room erupting in laughter and applause. He smiled—really smiled—for the first time in ages, and I realized it wasn’t for me. I blinked back tears, clutching the bakery box to my chest, and slipped out the side door.

I could only run, blindly escaping the venue. But I couldn’t help looking back. Through the glass wall, I saw the girl putting a birthday crown on him. Last year, I’d done that for him—just the two of us, and he’d thought it was silly. This year, he had a crowd around him. Would he remember me, the one who always celebrated his birthday?

I took out my phone and sent him a message: Happy Birthday.

My fingers shook as I typed, the words blurring through my tears. I waited for a reply that never came, my heart sinking lower with each passing minute.

Of course, he didn’t have time to check his phone. I squatted by the glass wall and scrolled through our chat history. I realized I sent him so many messages every day, and he always replied with just a few words. I always said goodnight, but he never replied. I called, and sometimes he answered, sometimes not. Mason never brushed me off—he just told me, flat out, not to bother him.

I stared at the blue bubbles on my screen, replaying every conversation in my mind. It was like trying to piece together a puzzle with missing pieces. The silence hurt more than any harsh word ever could.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed. I looked up and saw him spot me through the glass. I could imagine him frowning.

“I told you not to come. Was it really necessary?”

His voice was muffled through the glass, but I could see the frustration etched on his face. I pressed my palm to the window, wishing I could reach him, even if just for a moment.

…

“I just wanted to spend your birthday with you.”

“Isn’t there always another birthday?”

“Yeah, today’s your birthday. Don’t be mad. Happy birthday, Mason.”

I tried to smile, but my heart ached. He sighed, his tone softening.

His eyes darted away, and for a second, I thought he might come outside. But he just shook his head, shoulders slumping.

“Come in. Have you eaten?”

…

“Why are you just standing there?” he asked, impatience creeping in.

“Nothing.” I sniffled, tapping on the glass.

From that distance, I really couldn’t see his expression.

The night air was cool against my skin, and I hugged my arms around myself, feeling more alone than ever. I pressed my forehead to the glass, wishing I could disappear.

“I won’t spend your birthday with you anymore. Probably won’t in the future, either. I don’t want you anymore, Mason.”

I don’t know how he reacted, because I hung up. I fumbled for the block button, and when he called again, I blocked him. I was still holding the cake I’d made—messy, the writing probably crooked from being jostled. I dumped it all at once into the trash can beside me.

The box landed with a soft thud, frosting smearing against the plastic. I wiped my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. It felt final, like closing the door on a chapter I wasn’t ready to end.

Suddenly, I remembered how I’d carefully piped the words onto the cake that morning:

“Happy Birthday.”

“My most, most, most favorite Mason.”

I pictured the cake in the trash, the icing smudged and ruined. It was silly, but it felt like losing him all over again. I wrapped my arms around my knees and let myself cry, just for a little while.

It turns out, erasing someone from your world is really hard. I deleted his number, blocked him on Instagram, told all my friends we broke up, and threw away everything related to him. While sorting my art bag, I found a stack of drawings—all of me: portraits, half-body, full-body, sketches, color studies. Back during orientation, I’d always been his model. That’s how I first met him.

I spread the drawings out on my bed, tracing the lines of my own face through his eyes. Each sketch was a memory—a moment frozen in time. I wondered if he’d kept any of mine, or if he’d thrown them away like I was trying to do with him.

Art student training is tough, but for me, it wasn’t just the grind of painting every day. Because I was quiet, I was targeted and isolated by a small group. They bullied me for no reason—I never knew why. They poured dirty water into my paints, scattered charcoal dust on my seat, loudly made fun of my looks, and paired me with another quiet boy for laughs. At lunchtime, I’d hide in the classroom to draw and cry.

Those days felt like a lifetime ago, but the sting of their words still lingered. I remembered the way my hands would shake as I tried to draw, the ache in my chest when I realized I was completely alone. Art was my escape, but even that didn’t feel safe anymore.

That’s when I first met Mason. He was wearing a white shirt, sunlight streaming in through the window, tree shadows swaying over him. I didn’t know why he’d come to our class—his was far away. My face was streaked with charcoal and tears. He silently handed me a pack of tissues. I felt even more embarrassed.

He didn’t say much, just sat beside me and waited until I calmed down. His presence was steady, like an anchor in a storm. I wiped my face, grateful for the small kindness.

“This part—the cheekbone should be higher.”

A long finger pointed at my drawing. Most guys at training were sloppy, but even his nails were neatly trimmed. I never found out why he came that day or why he gave me advice, but after that, we got to know each other. He’d greet me on the quad. We were probably at that age when feelings just start to blossom. What girl wouldn’t like a clean, smiling boy?

I remember blushing every time he waved at me, my heart racing like I was in some teen rom-com. He’d crack jokes about my messy hair or offer to carry my art supplies, always finding ways to make me laugh when I needed it most.

But my secret didn’t stay hidden for long. After the group that bullied me found out I was close to Mason, they mocked me even more. They dragged me over to him to embarrass me, even wrote fake love letters to him in my name. Back then, Mason was really gentle. He cared about my feelings, told me not to pay attention to them, that working hard and getting into a good college was what mattered most. After that, I became his private model for practice. He drew me often, and always made me look beautiful.

He’d sketch me in the empty art room after class, the two of us sharing headphones and listening to indie playlists. Sometimes, he’d slip me a doodle of my smile or a note with a cheesy pun. Those little things made the hard days easier, and for a while, it felt like nothing could touch us.

Back then, I was scolded by teachers during the day and isolated by classmates at night. Mason was like the only light in my world. Maybe that’s why I clung to him so stubbornly—I was afraid to face the darkness again, even though maybe, my light… wasn’t my light anymore.

I hugged my knees to my chest, staring at the pile of sketches. It hurt to let go, but maybe it was time to find my own light again—to remember who I was before Mason, before everything got so complicated.

To lift my spirits, and on my roommate’s advice, I started working part-time as an art teacher at an outside studio. It kept me busy so I wouldn’t overthink things. The students were only a couple years younger than me, so they were always friendly. And their questions kept getting bolder and bolder:

“Ms. Brooks, do you have a boyfriend?”

I laughed, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. “That’s a secret,” I teased, feeling lighter than I had in weeks. Maybe, just maybe, I could start over—one brushstroke at a time.