Chapter 31— Mural, Skits, and Rainy Picnics
Lyra's POV
The morning is crisp, the sunlight spilling through the café windows as I sip my tea. The group is buzzing, full of energy I haven't felt in weeks. For the first time in a long while, I don't feel tense, don't feel like I need to defend myself from invisible betrayal. Today, the list comes alive.
"Okay, Sol," Evan says softly, leaning close so only I can hear. "Mural first?" His fingers brush against mine accidentally as he slides a sketchpad toward me. I glance up, meeting his warm eyes, and my chest flutters. The nickname, quiet and familiar, hits me softer than I expected.
I nod, biting my lip. "Yeah… let's do it."
We arrive at the small wall in the town park that the city allowed us to paint. Aveline and Saphira are already plotting colors and shapes, Cassian is teasing everyone about "making it actually look good," and Evan stands beside me, hands tucked into his pockets, watching me carefully.
"Okay," he murmurs. "I'll help. Only if you want me to."
I nod, and together we start outlining stars and little waves, the paintbrush moving in tandem, the warm sun on our shoulders. I glance at him occasionally; he smiles softly whenever our eyes meet, careful not to overwhelm, letting me feel in control.
"Good," he whispers, brushing stray paint from my hand. I inhale sharply. Just that tiny touch, patient, deliberate, makes my heart warm. I don't say anything. I just keep painting.
By the end of the morning, the mural is a vibrant mix of colors, shapes, and laughter. The wall glows like our shared memories, and I feel… lighter.
Next is the skit. We pile into the school auditorium, improvising props from bags and jackets. Evan is behind me, whispering lines gently into my ear, teasing just enough to make me laugh. I try to ignore the way his presence makes my stomach flutter.
"Okay, ready?" Soraya says, barely containing her grin.
We perform, stumbling over lines, improvising, laughing until our sides hurt. When Evan exaggerates his part dramatically, I almost snort popcorn out of my nose, and he grins, pretending not to notice. My chest lifts with laughter — real, unguarded laughter. I glance at him, and for the first time, I notice how carefully he watches me, like he wants to memorize every smile, every laugh, without forcing me to give more than I'm willing.
Later, we sit in the café again to write letters to each other, small notes of gratitude, memories, and love to be read on graduation day. I carefully fold mine, writing Evan's last. My hand trembles slightly, but I can't resist including a small star doodle next to his name — a reminder of the first ones we traced together at the sleepover.
When he receives it, his smile is quiet, almost shy. "Thank you," he murmurs, tucking it into his notebook. My chest tightens. That simple acknowledgment, patience, and gentle care are slowly breaking down walls I've built over months.
The food challenge is next — a ridiculous spread of sweet, salty, and absurdly spicy snacks at a local diner. We laugh so hard I cry a little, Evan holding my hand gently when a particularly spicy chip hits me with unexpected fire.
"You survived," he teases softly, brushing the back of my hand against mine. "I think you're ready for the rest of the list."
I grin weakly, heart fluttering. For the first time in weeks, the weight of betrayal doesn't sit heavy in my chest. It's still there, yes, but it's tempered with small, patient moments of trust. Evan isn't forcing forgiveness — he's letting it grow naturally, step by step, touch by touch, gesture by gesture.
Finally, the rain comes — unexpected, gentle, and perfect. Soraya groans, but we grab blankets and spread them over a patch of grass. Evan sits beside me, careful not to crowd, letting the warmth of the blanket and his presence seep in.
"It's… kind of perfect," I murmur, watching the drops create tiny patterns in the puddles around us.
He smiles softly, brushing a strand of wet hair from my face. "Yeah. Just… us, the rain, and a list that's slowly disappearing."
I press closer into the blanket, heart fluttering. "Slowly, huh?"
"Step by step," he murmurs, eyes glinting with warmth and something softer. "Just like us."
I let myself melt a little. Not fully. Not yet. But enough to feel the tug of hope, warmth, and fragile trust. The list is more than tasks now — it's laughter, shared moments, and Evan, slowly, patiently courting me back into a place I thought I'd never feel safe again.
And for the first time in weeks, I realize that maybe, just maybe, it's okay to let someone in again.