Next Door || HAMZAH THE FANTSATIC

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟒

 Y/N

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:04

I stand in front of my two canvases; my gaze fixed on them for what feels like an eternity—five minutes, maybe more. 

Every brushstroke, every colour, every detail stares back at me, daring me to find flaws I know aren't there but can't stop searching for. It's hard to believe that soon, they'll be hanging on a gallery wall for everyone else to see.

I smooth down the fabric of my dress, one I chose after far too many outfit changes. It's the nicest thing I own, simple but elegant, the kind of dress that makes me feel polished enough to match the occasion. My hair is swept into an updo — nothing too elaborate, but enough to keep it out of my face. 

For a moment, I wonder if I'm overthinking it all. But then again, this is a big deal—my art is out there for people to admire or critique. The thought sends a flutter of nerves through my chest, and I take a deep breath, trying to remind myself that I've earned this moment.

I hear a slightly loud cough come from outside, and my gaze immediately switches over. 

Hamzah.

I quickly compose myself before getting up and grabbing my two canvases with me. Once the door opens, I see him quickly shut off his phone and shove it into his pocket. Before saying anything, we exchange a small smile until he grabs my two canvases for me. 

He stares at me for just a moment. 

"Right— The gallery you're going to" He clears his throat, and I nod for him to continue. "I'll be going to." He stops for a second to look at me. 

Is he going for me?

I tilt my head slightly, my brows knitting together as a flicker of confusion crosses my face. The motion seems to throw him off balance. 

"My friend and his girlfriend are going." He shortly explains, his hand rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. 

His friend... Martin?

"And... they asked you to come?" I ask. He quickly nods. His eyes dart away for a moment, then back to me, his lips twitching with the faintest hint of a nervous smile.

For a moment, neither of us says anything, the silence stretching just long enough to feel noticeable. My eyes drift to him, and I catch the moment he glances at my art. His expression shifts almost imperceptibly—his eyes flicker with something I can't quite place.

"These are so good—what the hell," he says suddenly, breaking the silence with a small chuckle. His tone is light, but there's genuine admiration in his voice that catches me off guard.

I can't help but feel my cheeks warm at his compliment, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. "Thanks," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, though the praise makes me feel a little self-conscious.

He steps a bit closer, his eyes tracing the details of my work. "No, I mean it," he adds, his tone more serious now. 

His words catch me off guard, and for a brief moment, the nerves I'd been carrying melt away.

His gaze comes back to me, and he quickly clears his throat. "So let's go?" He grips the two canvases, and I nod. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

HAMZAH