Unwritten Chords

Chapter 34: he's making me feel things!

Anya's POV

The moment I stepped into my room, I let out a groan, burying my face in my hands. What was that, Anya? My reflection in the mirror didn't offer any answers, just the image of a girl who looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

I dropped onto my bed, pulling the oversized peach hoodie over my face. The same hoodie that now smelled faintly of him. I groaned again, louder this time, kicking my legs in frustration.

"Why did I hug him?!" I mumbled into the fabric. "And cry? Oh my god, he probably thinks I'm a mess."

I was a mess. But he puzzled me up.

Why?

I peeked out from under the hoodie, staring at the ceiling, replaying the scene for the hundredth time. The way his arms wrapped around me so gently, how he didn't even hesitate-well, maybe for a second, but then he hugged me back. And the way I clung to him like I was hugging my freaking soft toy.

Main pagal hu! (I am stupid!)

I let out a soft whine, rolling onto my stomach. "What kind of person does that? Who sobs into someone's chest out of nowhere?!" I buried my face into my pillow, my voice muffled as I added, "He's going to tease me forever about this, isn't he?"

Maybe not..but maybe yes!

But then I remembered the way he held me, like he didn't care that I was a blubbering mess. The memory made my cheeks heat up again, but this time it wasn't entirely embarrassment.

Fuckkk.

I sat up abruptly, shaking my head. "Nope, no. He'll probably forget about it. I'll just act normal. Totally normal." My stomach churned at the thought of seeing him tomorrow.

What if he didn't forget? What if he brought it up? Or worse-what if he didn't say anything at all?

I flopped back down onto the bed with a groan. "I'm never leaving this room again."
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The next day-

The studio was quiet, except for the faint creak of the stool beneath me and the soft rustle of my brushes against the canvas. Sunlight poured through the large windows, highlighting the flecks of paint on the floor and the smudges on my hands. It had been a while since I sat here like this, in front of a blank canvas, trying to find myself in the chaos of colors.

I stared at the white surface, my brush poised mid-air. It felt strange, like stepping into a memory I thought I'd left behind. My mind wandered to the nights I had spent convincing myself I was done with this, the weight of disappointment in my dad's voice pressing down on me.

But here I was, despite it all. Despite the doubt, the fear, and the voice in my head telling me to give up. And maybe-just maybe-I had Adrian to thank for that.

I can't belive I'm saying this.

I sighed, dipping my brush into a bright yellow. The color reminded me of warmth, of light breaking through the gray. With a steady hand, I made the first stroke. It wasn't perfect, but it was real. It was me.

Time slipped away unnoticed as I added the final details to the orange chrysanthemums, carefully brushing in soft white highlights that made the petals glow. A quiet sense of satisfaction bloomed in my chest as I leaned back, admiring my work.

"Poor brushes. They were probably enjoying their three-day vacation," came a teasing voice from behind me.

Startled, I spun my stool around to find Adrian Marshall standing in the doorway. He sauntered in with his usual confidence, a guitar case slung over one shoulder.