Tethered Light

Chapter 5: Starry Night

The air outside was sharp, a reminder that spring hadn't fully settled in yet. Olivia led me down the uneven steps of the porch, her grip firm but light as if she was afraid I might slip away.

"Where are we going?" I asked, glancing back at the glowing windows of the party.

She didn't answer, just flashed me that enigmatic smile over her shoulder. "Trust me."

I wasn't sure why, but I did.

We walked in silence, the hum of the party fading behind us. The streetlights cast long, flickering shadows across the cracked pavement, and the occasional car passed by, its headlights briefly illuminating Olivia's profile. She looked softer out here, without the noise of people vying for her attention.

Finally, she stopped in front of an old theater building a few blocks from campus. Its marquee was dark, the letters half-fallen, spelling out nothing in particular.

"What is this?" I asked, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets.

"It's where I started," she said, tilting her head toward the building. "Before I even knew what scenic design was, I used to come here and volunteer. Painting sets, moving props. Anything to get close to it."

I followed her up the cracked steps to the door, where she fished a key out of her pocket.

"You have a key?"

She shrugged, pushing the door open. "I know the guy who runs it. He lets me work here sometimes when I need space to think."

Inside, the air was cold and smelled of wood and old paint. It was darker than I expected, the only light coming from a string of dim bulbs hanging over the stage. Olivia walked ahead, her boots echoing against the floorboards.

"Come on," she called, motioning for me to follow.

I stepped carefully, my eyes adjusting to the dim light as we made our way onto the stage. Up close, it was smaller than it seemed from the audience, the wood worn and splintered in places.

"This is where I fell in love with it," Olivia said, sitting on the edge of the stage and letting her legs dangle over the side. "The sets, the lights, the way everything comes together to create something bigger than any one person."

Her voice was softer now, less commanding. I stayed where I was, a few feet away, unsure if I should sit beside her.

"What about you?" she asked, turning to face me. "What made you pick up a camera?"

The question felt heavier than it should have, like it carried more weight because it was coming from her.

"My parents," I said after a moment.

She didn't interrupt, just waited.

"They were photographers," I continued, stepping closer to the edge of the stage. "They traveled a lot for work. I grew up surrounded by cameras and darkrooms."

"And now you're following in their footsteps?"

"Sort of," I said, my voice quieter. "They died when I was seventeen. Plane crash."

The words came out flat, like they belonged to someone else. It was easier that way, to talk about it like it was just a fact and not the thing that had reshaped my entire life.

Olivia's expression softened, the sharpness in her gaze giving way to something gentler. "I'm sorry."

I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything else.

For a moment, the silence stretched between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It felt... safe.

"You're strong, you know that?" Olivia said, her voice barely above a whisper.

I frowned, not sure what she meant.

"To go through that and still be standing here," she said, her eyes locking onto mine. "That's strength."

I didn't feel strong. Most days, I felt like I was just getting by, moving through the motions because it was easier than stopping to feel everything.

"Maybe," I said, looking away.

Olivia stood and crossed the stage, closing the distance between us. When she stopped in front of me, she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against my arm.

"I mean it," she said. "You don't give yourself enough credit."

Her touch was light but grounding, and for the first time in a long time, I felt... seen.

Before I could say anything, she pulled her hand away and smiled. "Come on. Let's paint something."

"Paint?"

She nodded toward the side of the stage, where buckets of paint and brushes were stacked against the wall.

"You didn't think I brought you here just to talk, did you?" she said, her grin playful now.

I hesitated, but there was something infectious about her energy.

"Fine," I said, following her to the supplies.

We spent the next hour painting scraps of wood and old set pieces, our laughter filling the empty theater. It was messy and ridiculous, and for the first time in a long time, I forgot about everything else.

When we finally stepped outside, the sky was starting to lighten with the first hints of dawn. Olivia leaned against the railing of the steps, her hair glowing faintly in the pale light.

"Thanks for coming," she said, her voice quieter now.

"Thanks for dragging me here," I said, surprising myself with the honesty in my tone.

She smiled, and for a moment, I let myself believe that this night was the beginning of something good.

But of course, beginnings are never that simple.