A week passed, and Charles spoke to Amber only when forced by classwork, his words clipped, his eyes distant, a fortress rebuilt. She tried to apologize again, catching him after class, but he brushed it off with a cold "It's fine," his tone saying it was anything but. Lena, meanwhile, became Amber's shadow, filling the silence with chatter about art, school gossip, and Ethan Stewart's latest award. "Charles'll get over it," Lena said one day, tossing her hair as they walked to lunch. "He's just dramatic."
Amber wasn't so sure. She noticed things about Charles now—how his shoulders tensed when his phone buzzed, how his fingers tapped rhythms on the table, a dancer's grace beneath his awkwardness. Knowing about his dancing made her see him differently, but her guilt kept her silent, a weight she couldn't shake.
On Friday, Amber made a choice. At home, she pulled out her best drawing paper, its texture smooth under her fingers, and wrote a letter—not just an apology, but a confession. She wrote about her mother's relentless critiques, how they made her doubt every line she drew, every choice she made. She admitted to sabotaging a classmate's project in middle school, a secret that still burned with shame, the memory of paint spilled "accidentally" on a rival's canvas haunting her. She sketched two hands at the letter's edge, reaching but not touching, a quiet offering of vulnerability.
Monday morning, she arrived early, her heart pounding as she left the letter on Charles's side of the table, tucked in an envelope with his name in careful ink. She fled to the bathroom to avoid watching him read it, her reflection in the mirror pale and tense. When she returned, he was there, the open envelope before him, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on the sketch of hands.
He didn't speak, but after a long silence, he tore a scrap from his sketchbook and slid it to her. The note was simple, in his neat handwriting: Thanks for the letter. I get it. We're okay.
It was small, but it was enough. Amber exhaled, relief mingling with caution, a fragile bridge rebuilt. Lena, arriving late, noticed the exchange and frowned, her eyes narrowing. "You two are cozy again," she said, her tone light but edged, her pencil tapping her sketchbook.
"Just working," Amber said, wary of Lena's scrutiny, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. She glanced at the critique wall, where a new note read: Some apologies are lies. Her pulse quickened. Was it about her letter? Or was someone watching Charles, waiting for him to break? The murals seemed to shift, their swirls tightening, as if the room itself held its breath.