Adrian's laughter lingered even as the night pulled on, their shouts echoing through the lamplight streets until the city itself seemed drunk with them. But when he finally returned home, silence pressed in again. Silence, and the unfinished canvas waiting on his desk.
Sleep came late, and brought little comfort.
Morning came with no mercy. Light slipped past the curtain and struck his face, pulling him awake. He groaned, sat up, and rubbed at his temples. A faint headache throbbed at his temples—last night's gin and laughter leaving its trace. He rubbed his temples and made his way to the bathroom. He splashed water over his face, and when he emerged, he already looked refreshed.
The streets outside were alive with Sunday ritual. The air smelled of horses and fresh bread; families in their best clothes made their way toward the cathedral. Adrian checked his pocket watch, pulse quickening. He couldn't afford to be late for his first meeting with Selene.
Finding a cab was near impossible—each one already filled. He stretched on his toes, scanning the street, until luck favored him: a hansom cab pulled up to drop off a passenger. He ran for it.
"West Studio," he managed between gulps of air, tugging at his waistcoat that was never meant for running.
"Five shillings and a penny," the cabman replied.
Adrian climbed in and exhaled as the horse jolted forward. He checked his pocketbook, barely enough. Lucas would've preached a whole sermon on wasted shillings, but Adrian only leaned back, letting the city drift past.
The cab left Turner Gates and entered Calvere's prosperous quarter. Broad cobblestone streets glimmered; cafés spilled with chatter; theatres and painted posters clung to the corners. Even the air felt more polished.
When the cab stopped, Adrian stepped out. He paid. Half his pocketbook emptied.
The West Studio rose before him. A place both feared and revered. Here, artists gathered when their own walls felt too small, hoping the weight of others' brilliance would spark their own. Inside, the air was thick with turpentine, clay, and the unshakable hunger of ambition. Couples strolled between exhibits, sketchbooks in hand, their murmurs blending with the scratch of pencils.
The studio stretched across two tall floors, its walls lined with framed works from past exhibitions—charcoal studies, oil portraits, and half-finished sculptures standing like quiet sentinels. Light poured through the wide arched windows, spilling over easels and long tables littered with brushes and palette knives. A faint hum of conversation drifted from the far end, where a few benches and chairs had been arranged beneath the skylight—part resting place, part forum for quiet critique.
Adrian searched the crowd until he saw her.
Wisps of black hair framed her pale face as she stood before a portrait, notebook open, jotting quick lines.
As if sensing his gaze, Selene turned. Their eyes met.
He straightened his coat and walked toward her. Performing a curt bow as he pressed his cap to his chest.
Selene, eyes still half on the painting, responded with a brief nod before turning fully toward him.
"It seems," she said, "it isn't only your compulsory assessment you have trouble keeping time with."
A faint flush rose to his cheek. "Sorry about that."
"Alright," she said lightly, extending a hand. "Let's see it."
Adrian reached into his coat and placed a folded sheet in her palm. Selene unfolded it and scanned his heading.
Meaning of love in my opinion
Love is fantasy, a delusion we feed ourselves to justify our indulgence.....
Her eyes lingered on the page, then on him. A quiet sigh escaped her lips, as it seems the problem was worse than she thought.
Yes, love can feel like a fantasy," she said softly, "but there's no perfect dream in the real thing."
He looked down, unsure whether to speak.
"And love doesn't mean indulgence Adrian," she added. "There is a line between it."
Selene glanced up from the page, her expression softening. "Come," she said, gesturing toward the benches beneath the skylight. "We'll talk there."
He followed her through the crowd, his pulse steadying as they sat across from each other.
Above them, the glass roof gathered sunlight in fractured pools, lighting the dust that drifted like slow snow between them.