Between the Lines

Chapter 1 (Second Part)

The library was too quiet. The only sound was the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the occasional shuffle of paper or the clack of a keyboard from distant tables. I could feel Marcello's gaze move over my design; the weight of his silence more unsettling than any criticism he might throw at me.

I crossed my arms, leaning back in the uncomfortable wooden chair. "So?" I asked, trying to sound as indifferent as possible, even though my insides were twisting with impatience.

Marcello didn't even blink. He held the paper in his hands with that same infuriating seriousness, his eyes scanning every line, every detail, like a scientist examining a failed experiment. Finally, he let out a breath, but it wasn't the exasperated sigh I expected. Instead, he sounded... thoughtful.

"This isn't terrible," he said flatly, placing the sheet down with care, his fingers still resting on its edges as if it were delicate. "But it's chaotic. You're throwing ideas together without thinking about how they connect. It's like you're more interested in making something that looks impressive rather than something that works."

His voice wasn't cruel, but it stung all the same. I could feel the heat rise to my cheeks, and I hated that he'd gotten under my skin so quickly. "Well, maybe I care about how it looks," I snapped, my words sharper than I intended. "Design is supposed to be creative, not just functional."

Marcello didn't flinch. He tilted his head slightly, considering my words as if he were dissecting them. "Creativity is important, but so is structure. Without that, it falls apart." He glanced at me then, his eyes calm but unwavering. "And right now, your design is falling apart."

I clenched my fists under the table, nails digging into my palms to keep myself from lashing out. He was right, and that only made it worse. I hated that he could see through my efforts, hated that he'd pinpointed the exact thing I didn't want to admit.

"Fine," I muttered, looking down at the table, anywhere but at him. "Then tell me how to fix it."

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in a way that mirrored my own defensive posture. "First, you need to stop treating this like it's a battle you're going to lose. If you're just trying to prove something to someone, you're never going to get anywhere."

I stiffened at that. Prove something? Was it that obvious? The words clung to the air between us, and I wondered for a split second if he knew more about me than I wanted him to. But how could he? He was just a tutor. A serious, frustrating, impossible tutor.

He didn't seem to notice the effect his words had on me, though. His tone stayed even, almost clinical, as he continued, "Look, architecture is about balance. Every line has to have purpose. You can't just throw them together and hope it works out. Think of it like a foundation—weakness in one part affects the whole structure."

My eyes drifted back to my design, trying to see it the way he did. I wanted to argue, to defend my work, but the truth was staring me in the face. The lines were sloppy, rushed. I'd been so focused on making it look striking that I hadn't noticed how little sense it made.

But it wasn't just about the design. It was about everything. My family's voices echoed in my mind, the endless pressure to be more, to be better, to be perfect. I wasn't trying to create a great design. I was trying to create something they would see. Something they couldn't ignore.

I felt a lump form in my throat, and I blinked hard, refusing to let it show. Instead, I straightened my back and forced myself to meet Marcello's gaze. "So, what do you suggest?" My voice was calmer now, though the tension still pulsed beneath the surface.

He looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he grabbed a pencil and moved my design closer. "Start by cleaning up these lines," he said, pointing to the areas where the structure was weak. "Here, you've got too many elements clashing. Simplify it."

He was precise, methodical, as if he'd already spent hours thinking about how to fix it. I watched him sketch a few adjustments, his movements quick and sure, like he didn't even need to think. There was something oddly compelling about the way he worked—no hesitation, just pure focus.

I wanted to hate him for it, but I couldn't. He was good. Annoyingly good.

As he explained the changes, I found myself paying more attention than I expected. His voice, while direct, wasn't condescending. He was serious, yes, but there was a kind of quiet intensity in the way he spoke that I hadn't noticed before. It wasn't just about proving he was right—it was about the work.

When he finally stopped, he slid the paper back across the table to me. "Try that," he said, his voice still even, almost detached. But there was something in his eyes—something curious, like he was waiting to see what I'd do next.

I stared at the paper, my pride warring with my need to get this right. Part of me wanted to crumple it up and throw it back at him, tell him I didn't need his help. But another part of me—the part that cared, the part that had dragged me through all the years of neglect and indifference—knew better. I needed this. I needed to be better.

With a deep breath, I picked up the pencil and began making the changes. Marcello stayed silent, watching but not interfering. The silence between us felt heavy, but somehow less hostile than before. It was as if we'd reached some unspoken understanding, though I wasn't sure what it was yet.

As the minutes passed, I began to see the difference. The lines were cleaner, more intentional. His advice was frustratingly on point. It made sense, even if it came from him.

Finally, I sat back, exhaling. "Okay, it's better," I admitted, my voice quieter now, less defensive. "But that doesn't mean you're right about everything."

Marcello raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I don't have to be right about everything. Just enough."