Drawn To You (GirlxGirl)

Part 54

Jessie's P.O.V

I stood in front of the mirror, taking in my reflection as I smoothed down my shirt. Casual but smart—just enough to make a good first impression.

My dirty blonde hair hung loosely over my shoulders, the ends curling slightly from the New York humidity. I reached for my usual silver rings, slipping them onto my fingers one by one, a familiar comfort in this new, foreign city.

My eyes fell to the phone resting on the dresser. It was brand new, a welcome gift from the gallery, sleek and shiny and untouched by the weight of the past. I hadn't put Allie's number into it. I didn't even let myself scroll through the old messages or missed calls before switching phones. New phone, new start. That's what I kept telling myself.

But every time I thought about it, my stomach twisted into knots. Not having Allie's number felt strange—like cutting off a part of myself that I had held onto for too long. It was the final step in what I had been telling myself I needed to do for months: move on. Move forward.

Yet, the thought of moving on still stung, sharper than I'd ever anticipated. I imagined Allie and Mark, their relationship probably fully patched up, their lives settling back into place.

The idea of Allie slipping back into her old life, without me in it, gnawed at the edges of my heart.

I sighed, pushing those thoughts down as far as they would go. I had no room for that here, not anymore.

Grabbing my bag, I slung it over my shoulder and headed out of the apartment, locking the door behind me. The gallery was only a ten-minute walk, and it was a beautiful day in New York. The kind of day that made you believe anything was possible.

As I stepped out onto the street, the city was alive around me. Horns blared in the distance, the rhythmic hum of traffic filling the air. People moved quickly, weaving through the sidewalks with purpose, every face turned forward, driven by whatever goal awaited them. I passed small coffee shops with their doors open, the rich scent of espresso mingling with the city's distinct air. Food trucks lined the street corners, vendors shouting out their specials while tourists stopped to take photos of towering skyscrapers.

New York had a pulse of its own, something that thudded beneath the concrete and steel, something that felt both exhilarating and overwhelming at once. I wondered if I could ever truly belong here, or if I'd always feel like an outsider looking in.

Before I knew it, I arrived at the gallery. It was bigger than I'd imagined, a sleek, modern building with floor-to-ceiling windows that reflected the bustle of the street outside. I took a deep breath and walked inside, the cool air-conditioned space welcoming me into a different world.

A man in a sharp suit was waiting just past the entrance. He had a clean, professional look—dark hair neatly styled, a pair of glasses perched on his nose. He smiled as soon as he saw me.

"Jessie, nice to finally meet you in person." He extended his hand. "I'm Nick, the gallery owner."

"Nice to meet you too," I replied, shaking his hand.

His grip was firm but not overpowering.

"Welcome to the gallery," he said, his smile warm as he gestured for me to follow him. "Let me show you around."

We walked through the open space, and I couldn't help but be in awe of the sheer size of it. The walls were adorned with paintings—some already hung, others waiting for their place. Various genres filled the space, each piece unique, beautiful in its own way. Some were by artists I'd never heard of, while others were from names I had admired for years.

"We're in the process of setting up for the opening night," Nick said, nodding to a few workers who were carefully placing canvases on the walls. "It's going to be a big event. We've got some impressive pieces lined up, including yours."

The excitement in his voice was infectious, and I felt a flicker of pride stir in my chest. For the first time in a long while, I felt a spark of excitement about my work.

After a few moments, Nick stopped in front of a large, blank wall. It was in the prime spot—a spot that all of the other paintings would lead up to.

"And this," he said, gesturing toward the empty space, "is where your paintings will be displayed."

I stared at the wall, my breath catching for a moment. It was surreal—this space, this opportunity. It felt too big, too good to be true.

"Wow, this is incredible," I murmured, still taking it in.

Nick smiled. "We're really excited about your series, Jessie. There's been a lot of buzz around your work. People are curious. Tell me, what inspired this collection? The girl you've painted... Who is she?"

The question hung in the air, and for a second, I stared blankly at the wall, at the space where my paintings of Allie would soon hang. The familiar ache stirred in my chest again, the one I thought I'd left behind.

"Just... someone I used to know," I said softly, turning to him with a small smile.

I didn't elaborate, and Nick seemed to understand. He nodded, a brief pause in the conversation before he cleared his throat and continued the tour.

After walking me through the rest of the gallery, showing me where everything from the office to the storage spaces was, Nick stopped near the entrance again.

"Thanks for coming in today, Jessie. It was great to chat, and I think the art lovers of New York are going to be very happy you're here." He said as we shook hands again.

"Thanks, I'll see you in a few days" I said, smiling politely.

We said our goodbyes, and I stepped back out into the busy streets of Manhattan.

The sun had shifted higher in the sky, casting longer shadows across the pavement as I walked. I couldn't stop thinking about what Nick had said—about my paintings, about Allie.

I hadn't laid eyes on the series since I'd sent it over to the gallery. It had been easier that way, to package up those pieces of my heart and send them away, out of sight.

But now, in just a few days, they'd be hung up on that wall for the world to see. For strangers to admire and buy. I tried to convince myself they were just like any other painting—just colours and strokes, images that people would appreciate.

But they weren't.

Those paintings of Allie held more than just paint. They held the weight of everything I hadn't said, everything I had tried not to feel for so long. And now, she would never see them. She would never know how much of her was in those canvases.

The thought hit me hard as I walked through the busy streets, the noise of the city fading into the background. I didn't know what to feel—relief that I had finally distanced myself from her, or regret that she would never see the truth in those paintings.

I stopped at a small park, sitting on a bench beneath a tree as the world moved on around me. The realisation was heavy: no matter how far I ran, how many cities I moved to, or how many new starts I had, there would always be a part of me that was tied to her.

Maybe these paintings weren't just paintings after all. Maybe they'd always be something more, a tether I could never fully cut.

Could I ever move on from her? Did I even want to?

I looked up at the city, its endless possibilities laid out before me, but all I could feel was the ache in my chest.