Drawn To You (GirlxGirl)

Part 56

Allie's P.O.V

The city buzzed around me as I stood at the glass door, the hum of the street blending into the distant murmur of voices inside. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure the world could hear it, though no one around me paid any attention. They moved past me on the sidewalk, caught up in their own lives, their own distractions. But I was frozen, hand hovering near the door handle, unsure if I was ready for what I would find inside.

I took a deep breath, closing my eyes briefly as I tried to calm myself. This was why I had come. This was what I needed to do.

I had to see her.

My fingers curled around the cool metal, and before I could talk myself out of it, I pushed the door open. The murmur inside grew louder, a flood of voices filling the space. I slipped in quietly, making sure not to disturb anyone, my gaze quickly scanning the room. There were crowds gathered, all eyes focused on a stage where a man in a suit was speaking into a microphone. I hung back, moving through the edges of the crowd, not wanting to draw any attention.

And then I heard it.

"Jessie Madden, everyone!"

I froze. My heart felt like it stopped altogether, and time slowed to a crawl. My breath caught in my throat as I waited, as I watched, as I felt the world around me fade. It was like everything narrowed down to this one moment. To her.

And then there she was. Jessie.

She stepped onto the stage, her long, dirty blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, the soft waves shining in the gallery's warm light.

She wore a navy pant suit, her silhouette sharp and elegant, yet somehow still the same Jessie I had known in her paint covered overalls.

My heart ached just looking at her. She looked so confident, so beautiful, so different, and yet exactly the same.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move.

It had been nearly seven months since I had last seen her, and in those seven months, I had imagined this moment a hundred different ways. But none of them had prepared me for the reality of it. The shock of seeing her again, of feeling everything come rushing back at once—everything I had tried so hard to bury. The love, the regret, the guilt, the longing.

God, I had missed her.

She stood at the center of the stage, the crowd watching her with anticipation, and then... she spoke. Her voice was soft at first, nervous. I could see it in the way she shifted on her feet, the way she avoided looking directly at the crowd. But as she continued, her voice grew stronger, more certain. And she began to talk about her art.

About me.

I could feel the blood rushing in my ears as her words sank in. She was talking about the series, about the paintings I hadn't even seen yet.

She spoke about fear, about growth, about finding the courage to step through a door into something new. It was like she was reading from my own heart, like she had somehow captured every emotion I had ever felt and turned it into something beautiful, something raw and real.

I swallowed hard, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over. She had seen me, really seen me, in ways no one else ever had. I had been so blind to it, so scared of it. But now, hearing her describe it, hearing her put those feelings into words—it made me ache in a way I couldn't describe.

"So thank you," she said, her voice gentle, "thank you for seeing them, for seeing that even when things feel scary and overwhelming, what awaits on the other side of the door can be exactly what you need."

The crowd cheered, the applause ringing out through the room, but I barely noticed. I was still staring at her, at this woman who had somehow found a way to paint my soul without me even knowing it. And my heart ached with the weight of everything I hadn't said, everything I hadn't been able to say.

As the crowd began to disperse, mingling and chatting amongst themselves, I stayed where I was. I couldn't move. I didn't know if I wanted to.

Part of me wanted to run, to escape before Jessie saw me, before this moment could turn into something else. But another part of me—maybe the part that had driven me here in the first place—knew I couldn't leave. Not now. Not after seeing her again.

And then I saw her, standing with her back to me, staring at the paintings on the wall. Her artwork. Her soul on display.

My feet moved before my brain could catch up. I didn't even realise I had started walking toward her until I was only a few steps away.

Everything felt surreal, like I was watching myself from a distance. The sounds of the gallery blurred around me, the world narrowing down to just the back of Jessie's head.

What if she turned me away? What if seeing me here ruined everything? What if she didn't want me in her life anymore?

The questions swirled in my mind, each one hitting me harder than the last.

But I had to try. I had to.

I stopped just a few steps behind her, my heart pounding so loud I could barely hear anything else. She hadn't noticed me yet. She was still lost in her own world, staring at the paintings.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out at first. My breath caught, my throat tightening with nerves.

And then, I spoke.

"The brushstrokes really evoke a sense of melancholy, don't they?"

My voice came out soft, almost shaky, as I repeated her own words from months ago—the words she had joked to me about at the gallery in Glasgow, when we had been so wrapped up in each other, when the world had felt simpler.

I watched as Jessie's body stiffened, her entire frame tensing as though she had been struck by lightning. She froze, her back still to me, and for a moment, I was terrified she wouldn't turn. That she wouldn't want to see me.

But then, slowly, she did.

She turned, her movements careful, like she was afraid this wasn't real.

And then, her eyes met mine, and in that instant, nothing else mattered.

Her eyes—they were wide, shocked, her lips parted slightly as though she couldn't believe what she was seeing. And then, something else flickered there, something I couldn't quite place. It wasn't anger, or hurt. It was something deeper. Something raw.

"Hi, Jessie," I whispered, a small, tentative smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

Jessie didn't speak. She just stared at me, her chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths, her eyes scanning my face as though she was trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

I waited in the silence, my heart racing, unsure of what would happen next. Would she walk away? Would she tell me to leave? I didn't know what to expect. All I knew was that standing here in front of her, being this close to her again, made me feel everything all at once.

Her silence stretched on, and I felt the nerves twisting in my stomach, my hands trembling at my sides. Was she angry? Hurt? I wanted to reach out, to explain, to apologise, to say something—anything—that would make this right.

But all I could do was wait.