The art room felt different after hours. Quiet. Serene. The sunlight, now muted, streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the scattered easels and shelves brimming with paint jars. Iris arrived early, settling into her usual corner with her sketchbook.
She wasn't sure what to expect from this collaboration. Cassian Gray was a wild card—sharp, unpredictable, and far too perceptive for her liking.
The door creaked open, and there he was, his black jacket slung casually over one shoulder. "Early. Nice." He set his bag down on the desk opposite hers. "Let's get started."
Without waiting for a response, he spread out a series of sketches and notes. "So, I thought we could merge realism with a surrealist touch—something raw, but with an emotional undercurrent. What do you think?"
Iris blinked at him, then tilted her head, unsure how to communicate her thoughts.
"Right. The silence thing." He leaned back, tapping his chin. "You're gonna have to help me out here. Do you, like, write notes or… charades?"
She sighed and scribbled a few words on her notebook.
Show me your ideas first.
He slid a few sketches across the desk. The images were bold, striking—a shattered mirror reflecting fragmented faces, a pair of hands reaching out through swirling darkness. Iris studied them, her brows furrowing.
"These are just concepts," Cassian said, watching her reaction. "We can refine them or scrap them completely if you've got something better."
Iris hesitated, then flipped open her sketchbook to reveal one of her pieces. It was a grayscale drawing of a lone figure standing in a storm, their umbrella torn to shreds by the wind.
Cassian leaned closer, his brow furrowing. "This… is incredible."
She looked away, her cheeks flushing.
"What's the story here?" he asked.
She froze. Story? She hadn't planned to explain it, least of all to someone like him. But his gaze held genuine curiosity, not judgment. Slowly, she scribbled a single word beneath the sketch.
Loss.
He read it, nodding thoughtfully. "Yeah, I can see that. The details—the tension in the figure's posture, the chaos of the storm—it's powerful."
Iris glanced at him, surprised by his insight.
"I think we could combine this with one of the mirror concepts," he continued. "Something about identity fractured by grief. What do you think?"
She nodded slowly, her mind racing with possibilities.
For the next hour, they worked in silence, their ideas flowing seamlessly. Cassian sketched out rough drafts while Iris refined them with her own touches, her hands moving with purpose. Despite their differences, their synergy surprised her.
But just as the atmosphere grew comfortable, Cassian broke the silence.
"Why don't you talk?"
Her pencil stilled. She didn't look up.
He cleared his throat, as if realizing he'd overstepped. "I mean, you don't have to tell me. I just… wondered."
She hesitated before writing in her notebook.
It's personal.
"Fair enough," he said, leaning back. But his eyes lingered on her for a moment longer. "I get it, though. Sometimes it's easier to stay quiet. People can't twist your words if you don't say anything."
Her gaze snapped to his, startled.
He smirked, though it didn't reach his eyes. "What? You think you're the only one with stuff to hide?"
Iris frowned, unsure how to respond. Cassian wasn't what she'd expected. He wasn't just the confident, talented guy everyone admired. There was something else—something guarded.
"Anyway," he said, standing and stretching. "Let's pick this up tomorrow. We're off to a solid start."
She nodded, watching as he packed his things and slung his bag over his shoulder.
At the door, he paused, looking back at her. "For what it's worth, I think your voice—whether it's in your art or… whatever—matters. Don't let anyone make you think otherwise."
And with that, he was gone, leaving Iris alone in the fading light of the art room.
For the first time in years, she felt a spark of something unfamiliar. Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of something she didn't quite understand.