By the time the weekend rolled around, Sophie decided she needed a break from everything—the whispers, the stares, and the pressure to always be "on." She told Rachel she'd be unavailable and silenced her phone.
The solace she sought came in the form of an art exhibit at the local community center. Max had invited her earlier in the week, mentioning it casually as they sat in the courtyard.
"I think you'd like it," he'd said. "It's small, but it's meaningful."
At first, Sophie had been hesitant. She didn't know much about art, and the thought of being around strangers didn't thrill her. But now, as she walked into the exhibit hall and saw Max waiting for her, she felt a strange sense of calm.
"You made it," he said, smiling.
"Yeah. Thanks for inviting me," Sophie replied, adjusting her scarf.
---
The exhibit was nothing like she expected. Instead of grand oil paintings or sculptures, the space was filled with personal, intimate works—charcoal sketches of hands, watercolor portraits of loved ones, and mixed media collages that seemed to tell stories of struggle and triumph.
Sophie paused in front of one piece: a photograph of an elderly woman holding a weathered journal. The caption read, "Her life, one page at a time."
"It's beautiful," Sophie whispered.
Max, standing beside her, nodded. "It is. It's raw and honest, like it's not trying to be anything other than what it is."
Sophie glanced at him, struck by how perfectly his words captured what she was feeling.
---
As they moved through the exhibit, Sophie noticed how Max seemed to connect with each piece. He studied them intently, his brow furrowed in thought. It made her wonder what went through his mind when he sketched or painted.
"Do you ever feel like your art isn't good enough?" she asked suddenly.
Max turned to her, surprised by the question. "All the time," he admitted. "But I try to remind myself that it's not about being 'good enough.' It's about expressing something—whatever it is I'm feeling at that moment."
Sophie thought about her poetry and how she'd started writing to process her emotions. Somewhere along the way, she'd lost sight of that.
"Maybe I need to start writing for me again," she said softly.
Max smiled. "I think that's a good idea."
---
As they left the exhibit, Sophie felt a renewed sense of purpose. She wasn't sure if it was the art, Max's words, or just the act of stepping away from her usual routine, but she knew one thing: she needed to reclaim her voice.
Outside, the crisp evening air wrapped around them like a blanket. Max walked her to her bus stop, the two of them falling into an easy silence.
"Thanks for today," Sophie said as her bus approached.
"Anytime," Max replied. "See you Monday?"
Sophie nodded, smiling. "See you Monday."
As the bus pulled away, she glanced back at him through the window. Max stood on the curb, hands in his pockets, a faint smile on his face.
For the first time in weeks, Sophie felt like she could breathe again.