Tales Of The Heart | (G)i-dle

𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞

﹌

“Please don’t do this. I made a mistake. I still love you,” Jay said, his voice shaking like a leaf in the wind.

Shuhua stared at him, her chest rising and falling with the weight of emotions she thought she had buried. His words sliced through the silence, but they didn’t soothe her. Not this time.

She looked him in the eyes. “Where was this three months ago?” Her voice cracked, but it held firm. “Where was this when I cried myself to sleep wondering if I was the problem? When I kept reaching out, begging for scraps of affection, and all I got back was... nothing?”

Jay opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked helpless. Lost. But Shuhua had been the one drowning. For months.

“I wasted so much of myself trying to fix what you kept breaking,” she whispered. “And now, just when I’m learning how to breathe again, you show up? No, Jay. Absolutely not.”

He stepped forward, desperation in his eyes. “Shuhua, please—”

She stepped back. “I can’t do this anymore. I deserve better than this. Than you.”

And with that, she turned away. Her heart ached, but there was power in her steps, strength in her sorrow. This wasn’t weakness. This was survival.

Time passed. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months.

The pain didn’t vanish overnight. Some mornings still hurt. Some memories still stung. But Shuhua kept moving. She painted—pouring her pain, her joy, and her rediscovery into every canvas. Color by color, she stitched herself back together.

One day, while wandering through a local art gallery, she paused before a painting that stopped her breath—a sunset beach, with soft hues of orange and pink melting into each other.

It felt... familiar. Like peace. Like healing.

A nameplate read: "Ivy."

Intrigued, she asked a staff member, “Is the artist here today?”

“She should be around. Ivy’s doing a walk-through.”

Minutes later, Shuhua turned a corner—and there she was.

“Ivy?” she asked.

The woman looked up and smiled warmly. “Actually, it’s Soojin. Ivy’s just my artist name.”

Something clicked. Their eyes met. And suddenly, everything felt quieter. Simpler.

“I’m Shuhua,” she said, smiling shyly.

Soojin extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Shuhua. Want to join me for a coffee? I’d love to hear what you saw in the piece.”

They talked for hours. About art, about heartbreak, about rediscovery. Soojin had stories of her own—of finding herself after letting go of someone who tried to dim her light.

“You know what’s funny?” Soojin said over coffee, her eyes warm. “I used to think love meant losing parts of yourself to fit someone else’s picture.”

Shuhua nodded. “Same. But maybe the right person sees your mess and calls it a masterpiece.”

They both smiled.

Weeks passed. Studio visits turned into shared sketches, shared playlists, shared secrets. They became each other’s muses.

For the first time, love didn’t feel like walking on eggshells. It felt like breathing. Like coming home.

One night, as Shuhua leaned over a canvas and Soojin handed her a brush, their fingers touched—soft and lingering.

Soojin whispered, “I’ve never felt this safe with someone before.”

Shuhua looked at her, eyes soft. “Me neither.”

And then, without needing permission, their lips met—slow, tentative, filled with all the things they were too afraid to hope for.

Years passed, and their art reached new heights. They traveled, painted, lived. Not for anyone else—but for themselves, and each other.

And in all that time, Jay became nothing more than a faded sketch in the background of a much more vibrant canvas.

Because in choosing herself, Shuhua found someone who never asked her to shrink.

She found love—in the quiet, in the healing, in the colors she finally let herself see.