Chapter 3 — Skylight Sketches

Hazel

The Skylight Café hummed with its usual blend of quiet energy. Steam curled in delicate spirals from mugs of coffee, while the hiss of the espresso machine punctuated the low murmur of conversation. Mismatched chairs creaked under patrons shifting to get comfortable, and somewhere in the corner, a typewriter clattered faintly, its taps echoing beneath the mellow strumming of an indie guitar from the speakers overhead. The café’s etched wooden tables bore years of scribbled notes, a mosaic of fleeting ideas and forgotten moments.

Hazel sat by the wide window, her sketchbook open in front of her. The pages were chaotic—half-finished sketches of threads tangled with faint, faceless figures, moments frozen but incomplete. Her pencils lay scattered across the table like remnants of a creative battle, their dulled tips reflecting her exhaustion. She rested her chin on her palm, eyes tracing the raindrops that raced down the glass. The sky outside was a murky grey, the kind that pressed the world into a muted hush, amplifying her thoughts.

Her feet tapped restlessly against the wooden floor, a staccato rhythm to the storm inside her head. Professor Nguyen’s critique still echoed sharply, her calm yet pointed words refusing to fade.

*"Your work lacks focus, Hazel,"* her professor had said, her voice deliberate and steady, like the stroke of a chisel on stone. *"It’s technically sound, but it doesn’t say anything. Art needs to speak, to invite others into its story. Right now, it’s locked in your head, and no one else can find the key."*

Hazel had stood stiffly in front of her, her sketchbook clutched to her chest like a shield. The smell of turpentine and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights in the studio had seemed louder than usual, oppressive even. She nodded, her throat too tight to respond, and slipped away as quickly as she could. Now, hours later, the shield felt paper-thin. The professor’s words clawed at her insecurities, feeding the gnawing fear that maybe she didn’t have a key to offer at all.

She picked up a pencil and hovered it over the blank page in her book, willing something—anything—to take shape. But her hand faltered, and the pencil dropped with a faint clatter as she leaned back with a frustrated groan.

“Ugh. Why is everything terrible?”

“Because you’re dramatic,” a familiar voice chimed in. Hazel startled and glanced up to see Cara sliding into the seat across from her, her leather jacket glinting faintly under the café’s Edison bulbs. With her short, pixie-cut hair and ripped jeans, Cara looked like she belonged in a gritty, modern photo shoot titled *Effortlessly Intimidating.*

“Hey, I didn’t even hear you come in,” Hazel said, sitting up straighter.

“Clearly. You were too busy giving the rain your best tortured-artist stare.” Cara smirked, reaching across the table to steal Hazel’s untouched coffee. “What’s wrong this time? Professor Nguyen?”

Hazel winced, slumping forward. “She didn’t need to tear me apart. She just... poked me. Firmly. With very sharp words.”

“Yeah, she’s good at that.” Cara took a sip of the coffee, her smirk softening. “So, what’s the plan? More wallowing, or are we moving on to the part where you actually do something about it?”

“I’m allowed to wallow,” Hazel shot back. “It’s part of the process.”

“Uh-huh. And how’s that process working out for you?” Cara arched an eyebrow, her tone edging toward the teasing end of the spectrum but not quite dismissive.

Hazel didn’t respond, opting instead to flip through her sketchbook. Page after page revealed scattered pieces—threads that stretched but didn’t connect, fragmented ideas that failed to take shape. Golden swirls looped through hazy outlines of people, but none of it felt whole. Her fingers brushed the Golden Thread Pendant at her neck, the glass vial amplifying the delicate thread inside as it caught the warm café light. It was her mother’s gift, meant to remind her of beauty in fleeting moments. But even that comfort felt distant now.

“I just don’t know how to make it *mean* something,” Hazel admitted quietly, her voice almost lost beneath the café’s gentle hum.

Cara leaned forward, her teasing smirk giving way to something softer. “Hazel, you’ve got a good start, like always. But you let your brain get in the way. Maybe it’s less about making it mean something and more about letting it mean whatever it does.”

Hazel bit her lip, caught between frustration and the nagging sense that Cara might be right. Before she could respond, her phone vibrated on the table. She glanced at the screen, her heart lifting slightly when she saw the name.

*Alexander Barrett.*

The wrong-number guy.

She unlocked her phone and read his message.

*Xander:* *Have you ever considered that overthinking is the enemy of creativity?*

Hazel blinked, her lips quirking upward despite herself. How did he manage to hit the bullseye of her problem without knowing it? She quickly typed back.

*Hazel:* *Overthinking and I are in a committed relationship. It’s toxic, but here we are. Also, parallel parking. That’s a nemesis too.*

His reply came almost immediately.

*Xander:* *Parallel parking is formidable. But overthinking? That’s just self-sabotage in disguise.*

She reread his words, her grip on the phone tightening. The phrasing carried weight, like it came from someone familiar with the exhaustion of his own battles. She wondered briefly what polished, composed battles Alexander Barrett fought in his world of high-rises and sharp suits.

*Hazel:* *Do you usually drop wisdom bombs on unsuspecting artists, or am I special?*

*Xander:* *I think you’re bringing it out in me. But seriously—imperfection is part of the process, isn’t it?*

Hazel stared at the screen, her fingers absently turning the pendant between them. Imperfection. Process. She glanced at her chaotic sketches, the unfinished threads suddenly feeling less like failures and more like possibilities. Her mind began turning over his words, unwinding their weight.

“Who’s got you smiling like that?” Cara asked, one dark eyebrow arched high.

Hazel quickly schooled her expression. “No one. Just... a friend.”

“A *friend* who you keep texting at suspiciously poetic hours,” Cara teased. “Sure, Montgomery, whatever you say.”

Hazel rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Cara wasn’t wrong. Xander’s steady, deliberate way of speaking—or texting—was the complete opposite of her whirlwind personality. And yet, he didn’t seem put off by her chaos. If anything, he seemed drawn to it.

Her phone vibrated again.

*Xander:* *You don’t have to know all the answers right away. Just take it one thread at a time.*

The warmth from his words settled over her like a soft blanket, weaving into her racing thoughts. One thread at a time. Maybe that’s all she needed to do.

She picked up her pencil again, this time with steadier hands. Her strokes were hesitant at first, but they began to flow, each line connecting moments in a way that felt deliberate but free. A single golden thread snaked through her sketch, weaving through abstract figures and fleeting scenes—faces, laughter, and quiet moments of connection. From across the café, a conversation about an upcoming art exhibit drifted toward her, the voices blending into the typewriter’s rhythm like a quiet affirmation.

Cara leaned over, her tone lighter. “About time you stopped moping. That looks good.”

Hazel smiled faintly, her energy rekindling. “I think I just needed a reminder.”

“Well, finish the damn thing before your coffee gets cold.” Cara leaned back into her chair, her brass cuff bracelet clinking softly against the table.

The Skylight Café buzzed around them as Hazel’s pencil danced across the page. Her pendant shimmered faintly in the light, and somewhere, a typewriter clicked in rhythm with her movements. In a quiet corner of the city, Alexander Barrett had no idea just how much his words had helped.

Someday, she thought, she’d tell him. But for now, the golden thread would speak for itself.