Chapter 2 — The Art Room Refuge

Valoria

The next day, I hover just outside the art room during lunch, fingers tightening around the worn edges of my sketchbook. The hallway hums with the usual chaos of high school—laughter, shouts, the occasional locker slam. It would be easy to let the tide sweep me back toward the cafeteria, where I could disappear into the noise and remain unseen. But the gnawing thought of sitting alone, surrounded by strangers and curious stares, keeps my feet frozen in place.

My thumb brushes over the crescent moon pendant around my neck, the cool curve of its surface spreading a faint calm through my chest. I glance at the slightly ajar art room door, the faint smell of paint and turpentine wafting through. Before I can overthink it, I push open the door and step inside.

The atmosphere is a stark contrast to the hallway’s chaos. Warm sunlight filters through tall windows, catching on scattered paintbrushes and jars of murky water. A handful of students are lost in their work, their heads bowed over sketchbooks or canvases, their focus transforming the room into something sacred. The soft scrape of pencils and the clink of brushes feel like a secret rhythm only this room knows.

Sophia is in the same spot as yesterday, perched on her stool by the windows, a faint smudge of graphite on her cheek. She glances up as I enter, her hazel eyes lighting up with a smile that feels... unguarded. “Hey! You made it.”

“Don’t read too much into it,” I say, sliding onto the stool beside her. “The cafeteria’s unique blend of chaos and mystery meat wasn’t exactly calling my name.”

Sophia’s laugh is soft and genuine, like she’s not trying too hard. “Fair enough. I figured you’d wander in eventually. You’ve got ‘art room regular’ written all over you.”

“Oh, really?” I arch an eyebrow, setting my sketchbook on the table. “What gave it away? The incessant brooding or the fact that I carry this thing around like it’s surgically attached?”

She smirks. “Both. Definitely both.”

Her easy confidence makes it harder to feel defensive. She’s already turned back to her sketchpad, her pencil moving in clean, deliberate strokes. I glance at her work—she’s sketching a jacket design, the lines precise but full of personality.

“You’re into fashion, right?”

“Yep,” she says, without looking up. “I love taking something plain and turning it into something meaningful. Like wearable art.”

“Sounds terrifying.” I gesture vaguely at the room. “It’s one thing to sketch something, but actually creating it? No thanks.”

Sophia pauses, her pencil hovering just above the page. “It can be. But it’s also kind of amazing when it works. And if it doesn’t, you just try again.” She glances at me then, her gaze steady but not overwhelming. “Why do you draw?”

The question catches me off guard. My fingers hover over my sketchbook’s clasp. Why do I draw? To breathe. To make sense of things I can’t say. To keep myself from unraveling. But none of that feels safe to say out loud.

“Because I can,” I say finally, my voice quieter than I mean it to be.

Sophia doesn’t push. She just nods like that answer is good enough and goes back to sketching. The silence between us is surprisingly comfortable, like a soft blanket instead of a weight pressing down. For a moment, I let myself sink into it, my pencil moving almost automatically as I flip open to a blank page.

The lines start to form without me overthinking them—a tree with twisted branches, jagged and reaching. It’s the kind of image that always sits in the back of my mind, something vaguely familiar but out of reach. I lose myself in the texture, the curves and sharp angles, until the rest of the world starts to fade.

“Wow.” Sophia’s voice brings me back. She leans closer, her expression full of unfiltered awe. “That’s incredible. The way the branches twist... It’s like you pulled it out of a dream.”

Heat creeps up my neck. I snap the sketchbook shut before she can see anything else. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t do that,” she says softly, her tone steady but kind. “You’re really talented, Valoria.”

Her words hang in the air, simultaneously warm and uncomfortable. I mumble, “Thanks,” without meeting her gaze, letting the hum of the room fill the space between us. Part of me wants to believe her, but the voice in my head says otherwise.

The door creaks open, cutting through the quiet, and I glance up just in time to see Bill stride in. His black velvet jacket is even more dramatic than yesterday, silver embroidery catching the sunlight like he’s a walking spotlight. He moves with an effortless confidence that somehow doesn’t feel forced, and his grin is sharp enough to rival the silver thread on his cuffs.

“Ladies,” he says, his voice smooth and theatrical as he inclines his head. “What brilliance is brewing in this fine establishment?”

“Art,” I say flatly, not looking up.

Bill clutches his chest in mock offense. “Sarcasm, Valoria? Already?”

Sophia chuckles, clearly unbothered by his theatrics. “What brings you here, Bill?”

“Oh, I was just wondering if our new town mystery was planning to make another appearance at the Velvet Room,” he says, turning his attention to me. “Or was last night a one-time honor?”

I roll my eyes. “You’re assuming I’ll ever step foot in that place again.”

“Fair point,” he says easily. “But if you do, you might consider sketching us again. I’m dying to see what you’d do with me as your muse.”

I snort. “I think the world has enough portraits of you.”

His laugh is quick and unbothered, and he adjusts the cuff of his jacket like he’s on a runway. “Touché. But seriously, you should come to our next rehearsal. It’d give you a chance to capture us in our natural habitat. A true artistic challenge.”

The suggestion lodges itself in my chest like a stubborn splinter. “I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, his grin softening just a fraction. “But the invitation stands. You might surprise yourself.”

Before I can come up with a response, the bell rings, jolting the room back to life. Students start packing up, the scrape of chairs breaking the spell of the art room’s quiet.

“Think about it.” Bill tosses a wink my way before heading for the door. “See you around, Valoria.”

Sophia and I gather our things in silence, but her smile lingers, quiet and thoughtful. As we step into the hallway, she finally speaks.

“You should go, you know.”

“To the rehearsal?” I shake my head. “Not happening.”

“Why not?” Her tone is light, but there’s something genuine underneath it. “It could be fun. And... I don’t know, I think it’d be good for you.”

“Good for me?” I glance at her, caught off guard.

“Yeah.” She shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re really talented, Valoria. And you’re not invisible, no matter how hard you try to be. People notice.”

Her words hit somewhere deep, where I don’t quite know what to do with them. They follow me through the rest of the day, through the drizzle-soaked walk home, and into my room, where I curl up on my bed with my sketchbook balanced on my knees.

People notice. I run my fingers over the tree sketch, my pencil hovering as I trace the twisted branches. For the first time in a long time, I wonder if letting them see—just a little—might not be the worst thing in the world.