Drawn To You (GirlxGirl)

Part 49

Jessie's P.O.V

The studio had never been busier. For weeks, things had been moving at a speed I wasn't sure I could keep up with. Paintings sold, commissions requested, and galleries across the country showing interest in my work. It was everything I'd dreamed of—to have people appreciate it, value it. It should have felt like a victory.

But every time I caught a quiet moment, the ache was still there. A part of me that felt hollow, like something was missing.

Even now, knowing Allie had gone back to Mark, the thought of her still weighed on me, lurking beneath the surface of everything else.

Some days, it hurt more than others. Some days I was angry, furious that I'd let her get close enough to hurt me like this. Other days, it was just emptiness, a kind of dull ache that I'd grown used to.

I threw myself into work to avoid it, spending every waking hour either in the studio or at home, working on pieces that would never be sold. My own private way of dealing with the storm inside. I wouldn't show anyone these works; they were mine, expressions of everything I couldn't say aloud.

It helped, sometimes. It helped to paint through it, to feel the brushstroke glide over canvas, bringing something to life that I could control. But even when my hands were steady, my thoughts weren't.

I had just finished setting up a new series of paintings for delivery when I heard Liam call out from the front desk.

"Jessie! Oh my God!" He shouted.

My heart skipped a beat. I placed the brush down and walked over, wiping my hands on my apron.

"What is it?" I asked, a little confused by the excitement in his voice.

He was practically bouncing on his feet, staring at the computer screen.

"The local newspaper wants to do a feature on you!"

I blinked at him, trying to process what he'd just said.

"What?" I walked over and joined him at the reception desk.

He turned the screen in my direction so I could read the email for myself. Sure enough, there it was: a request from the local paper to write an article about me, about the gallery, about my work.

"Wow," I muttered under my breath.

It was flattering, of course. Recognition for all the work I'd been doing. I should have been thrilled.

But the idea of being in the public eye like that, having my face in a paper for anyone to see... It wasn't exactly my style. My heart beat faster, and not in a good way.

Liam must have sensed my hesitation because he nudged me with his elbow, grinning.

"Come on, Jess. This is huge! Think about how much exposure you'll get. It's part of the business, you know?" He coaxed.

I bit my lip, staring at the email.

"I know it's just, I don't really like the attention." I told him truthfully.

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, if you want to be successful in this game, you've got to get used to it. Besides, it's the local paper. It's not like it's the New York Times."

I gave him a small smile, appreciating his enthusiasm. He wasn't wrong. This was part of the deal if I wanted to keep growing my name, my work.

After a moment, I sighed. "Okay, fine. Let them know I'm in."

Liam's face lit up as he immediately started typing out a reply, excitement buzzing around him. I watched him for a moment before walking back into the studio, trying to push away the lingering discomfort.

A few days later, the photographer and journalist arrived. The studio felt different with them walking around, clicking away with their camera.

I had arranged the paintings they could photograph, making sure to avoid the ones that were more personal—especially the ones of Allie. Those were for true art lovers, people who would see more than just a face or a body. They would see what I had felt when I painted them.

The photographer, a short man in his early forties, had been chatty since the moment he arrived. As I stood in front of one of my pieces, he directed me with a practiced ease.

"Alright, just a bit to your left. Perfect. Can you give me a smile? Not too big, just something subtle." He requested.

I tried, though my nerves were evident. This wasn't my world—the posing, the public performance. I much preferred being behind the scenes.

"Great," he said, clicking a few more shots. "You've got that mysterious artist look down, don't you?"

I forced a laugh. "I guess so."

After what felt like an eternity, he was finally done. The journalist, a woman in her late twenties with a friendly smile, approached me with a notebook in hand.

"Alright, Jessie, shall we get started with the interview?" She smiled.

I nodded, sitting down at a small table near the back of the gallery.

"Okay, let's start with the basics. How did you get into painting?" She asked, pen at the ready on her notepad.

It was a standard question, one I'd answered a hundred times before. I gave the usual answer, talking about how art had always been a part of my life, how it had grown into something I couldn't imagine living without.

"And do you have a specific process or routine when it comes to creating a new piece?" she asked.

I thought for a moment. "I don't have a strict routine, but I do let the emotion of whatever I'm feeling guide the process. I think that's the key for me—capturing the emotion of a moment or a memory." I spoke fluently, confidently.

She nodded, scribbling down notes.

"A lot of your recent work seems very personal. Would you say any specific person or experience has inspired this series?" The final question came out her mouth.

My breath caught in my throat for a second, but I managed to keep my face neutral.

"Yes, some of my work is inspired by personal experiences. I think art is a reflection of the people who've left a mark on you—whether good or bad." My voice stayed steady, but my mind flashed to Allie.

The journalist raised an eyebrow, sensing something unsaid, but she didn't push.

"That's a beautiful way to put it. Thank you for sharing that." She smiled warmly and closed her notebook. "I think that's everything. This should be a lovely feature for tomorrow's edition."

I nodded, trying to suppress the rush of emotions swirling beneath the surface.

"Thanks." I smiled.

As she packed up her things and left the studio, I stood there, staring at the space where she'd been. The idea of my face, my name, in the newspaper for anyone to see sent a wave of unease through me. But there was something else, too. The thought that Allie might see it, might read the article and know—maybe not explicitly, but know deep down—that she'd been the one to inspire some of the most meaningful work I'd ever done. That thought lingered.

The door clicked shut behind the journalist, and I exhaled, a long, shaky breath. I should have been proud of how far I'd come, how much recognition I was getting. But all I felt was the heaviness of all the things I hadn't said, all the things I still felt for her.

As much as I tried to focus on the future, Allie was still there, in every brushstroke, in every quiet moment when my mind wandered back to what could have been.

She wasn't coming back, I reminded myself. I needed to move on. But the problem was, I still didn't know how.