Ava's POV
The train ride home was loud.
Not in sound, but in feeling.
Ava pressed her forehead against the glass, watching the city blur past in smeared lights and late-night shadows. Her earbuds were in, but she wasn't listening to anything. Just pretending. Like she always did.
Noise gave people a reason not to talk to her.
She lived off-campus, tucked away in a tiny, crumbling studio apartment above a flower shop that always smelled like crushed stems and rotting water. The rent was barely affordable. The windows never closed properly. But it was hers. And it was quiet.
And sometimes, that was all she needed.
Ava unlocked the door, flipped on the light, and dropped her bag by the door with a dull thud. Her easel stood waiting in the corner. Half-finished. Mocking. The colors had dried stiff days ago.
She hadn't touched it since…
Since her last call with her mother.
She sighed, pulling off her paint-stained cardigan. The message from earlier—Unknown Number—still sat on her phone. She hadn't called back. Hadn't wanted to know. Some things were easier left unanswered.
She poured herself a glass of water and stared out the crooked window.
When she was twelve, she used to paint in secret. Her father hated "mess." Her mother hated "wasting time." Ava would sneak crayons into her room, sketch in the dark, and dream of running away to a world where colors didn't need permission.
She hadn't run away. Not exactly.
But she hadn't gone home either.
Now, in this too-small apartment, with her too-many dreams and too-little certainty, she painted because it was the only thing that didn't lie to her.
Brushes didn't scream.
Canvas didn't hit back.
Color never judged.
Still, even with all that—
Even with the silence and the space and the new life—
She couldn't shake the feeling lately that she wasn't really alone.
As if something was… shifting.
As if the world around her was watching, waiting.
For what, she didn't know.
But she felt it.
In the cracks.
In the quiet.
In the velvet hum beneath her skin.
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