The morning dawned with a pale sun filtering through the snow-laden clouds, casting long shadows on the ground. Nate awoke feeling lighter than he had in years. The weight of Ethan's memory, though still present, didn't feel as suffocating.
He lingered in bed for a moment, replaying the conversation with Lia from the night before. Her words had stuck with him, carving a path through the self-imposed isolation he'd grown so accustomed to.
But the hardest part was yet to come.
The studio felt different as Nate entered it that morning. He surveyed the scattered canvases, each one a fragment of the pain he had carried since Ethan's death. For years, he had poured his guilt and grief into his work, creating pieces that no one else was meant to see.
Now, though, they felt less like wounds and more like stepping stones.
His phone buzzed on the counter, pulling him from his thoughts. It was a message from Lia.
Lia: Rise and shine, artist! Meet me at the café at noon. Don't even think about saying no.
Nate smiled despite himself. Lia's persistence was as relentless as it was comforting.
By the time he arrived at the café, Lia was already there, a steaming cup of coffee in hand and her sketchbook open on the table. She waved him over, her grin wide and infectious.
"Look who decided to show up," she teased as he sat down.
"Did I have a choice?" Nate shot back, though his tone was more playful than annoyed.
"Not really." Lia pushed a cup of coffee toward him. "Drink up. You look like you could use it."
He took a sip, the warmth of the drink spreading through him. "So, what's the agenda today? Another impromptu therapy session?"
Lia smirked. "Not exactly. I was thinking we could talk about something more exciting—like what you're going to do with all those paintings."
Nate groaned, leaning back in his chair. "We've been over this, Lia. They're not for public consumption."
"And we've been over this," she countered, pointing a finger at him. "You're too talented to let them collect dust in your studio. People need to see them, Nate. They need to see you."
Her words struck a nerve, but instead of retreating into his usual defensiveness, Nate found himself considering them.
"What if they're not good enough?" he admitted quietly, voicing a fear he hadn't even realized he had.
Lia's expression softened. "They are," she said firmly. "But more importantly, they matter because they're yours. Every stroke, every color—it's a part of your story. And that story deserves to be told."
They spent the next hour talking, Lia alternating between sketching in her notebook and offering ideas for how Nate could start sharing his work. By the time they left the café, Nate felt a spark of something he hadn't felt in years: possibility.
That evening, he stood in his studio, staring at the largest canvas he owned. It had been blank for months, the stark white surface a reminder of all the things he hadn't allowed himself to face.
But now, it called to him.
He picked up a brush and dipped it into a deep, fiery red. The first stroke was hesitant, but as he worked, the colors began to flow more freely. He painted until his arms ached, layering the canvas with bold streaks of color and texture.
By the time he stepped back, the painting was alive with movement and emotion. It wasn't perfect—far from it—but it felt true.
The next morning, Lia arrived unannounced, as usual. She found Nate in the studio, staring at the completed painting with a mix of pride and apprehension.
"Whoa," she said, stopping in her tracks as her eyes landed on the canvas. "Nate, this is... incredible."
He glanced at her, a hint of vulnerability in his expression. "You think so?"
"I know so," she said, her voice filled with certainty. "This is the kind of thing people need to see."
For the first time, Nate didn't argue.
A week later, with Lia's encouragement, he submitted his work to a local gallery. It was a small step, but it felt monumental.
When the gallery accepted his submission, inviting him to participate in an upcoming showcase, Nate felt something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in a long time: hope.
On the night of the showcase, the gallery was packed with people. Nate stood off to the side, his nerves threatening to overwhelm him as strangers studied his work. Lia was there, of course, offering him encouragement and keeping him grounded.
"You did it," she said, her voice filled with pride.
"We did it," he corrected, his gaze softening as he looked at her.
As the evening wore on, Nate found himself opening up to the people who approached him, sharing bits and pieces of his story through his art. Each conversation felt like another layer of his walls being chipped away.
By the end of the night, he felt lighter than he had in years.
Walking home under the starry sky, with Lia by his side, Nate realized something. For the first time since Ethan's death, he wasn't just surviving.
He was living.