The phone buzzed gently beside Michael’s pillow. He shifted, squinting at the screen . Mum. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, then answered.“Hey, Mum.”

“Hi, love. Just checking in,” her voice chirped through. In the background, he could faintly hear the clatter of a spoon against a mug. “Have you eaten today?”

Michael smiled, scratching the back of his head.“Yeah, I have. I’m good.”

“And school? How’s it all going?”

“It’s fine. Busy. But I’ve joined a Christian fellowship group on campus, met a couple people through that. We’ve got this freshers party happening in a few days. I might check it out.”

His mother hummed approvingly. “That’s good. It’s important to be around people, Mikey.”

He laughed. “You say that like I live in a cave.”

“Well...”

They both chuckled. The conversation drifted into talk about his siblings, church back home, and if he had enough groceries. When he hung up, a soft stillness settled over his room. He lay back for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling, thinking about nothing in particular.

Outside the art gallery, the air had shifted. The sun had long dipped beyond the skyline, and the streets glowed with that dull amber of early night. Sarah stood near the doorway, her arms folded tightly across her coat, watching as the taillights of a black car disappeared down the street.

Inside, the gallery had returned to quiet. But it hadn’t been a peaceful day.

A wealthy client had shown up with her two children — twins, maybe 10 , and their shrill complaints had echoed through the gallery for nearly an hour.

“There’s nothing nice here,” one of them had whined, kicking at the leg of a display table.

“I want something bigger,” the other had said, tugging on a painting’s frame.

Sarah had smiled through it all, nodding politely, subtly signaling to Alice to come help when the mother seemed uninterested in reigning them in.

Now, standing outside, she let out a long sigh. She felt like she had aged five years in the span of two hours. Her feet ached, her eyes burned slightly from lack of sleep, and her stomach growled faintly.

There was still the Freshers Art Welcome Night to prepare for. The gallery would host students over the next couple of evenings , a kind of slow-paced, cultural alternative to loud club events. Sarah wasn’t against it. She just didn’t have the energy. Not tonight.

She caught the train back home, earbuds in, but no music playing. Just silence.

Later, in her apartment, wrapped in a towel with steam curling from the bathroom door, Sarah sank into her bed. She barely had time to pull the covers over her legs before her phone buzzed again. Mum.

She debated ignoring it, but answered anyway.

“Hi, Mum.”

“Oh, sweetheart. Just a quick one. Guess who came to visit today?”

Sarah didn’t respond. She already had a feeling.

“Ethan. He brought some food for Meemaw and sat for a bit. Said he was in the neighborhood.”

Sarah closed her eyes, already feeling the conversation draining her more.

“Asked of you, too,” her mum added, casually. “Said he hopes you’re doing alright.”

Sarah didn’t know what to say. Her eyes burned from the bath, from exhaustion, from something she didn’t want to name.

“That’s...nice,” she murmured.

Her mum, sensing her tone, didn’t push it. “Alright, I won’t keep you. Just thought you’d want to know.”

When the call ended, Sarah turned off the lamp beside her bed and lay still. Her fingers curled lightly against the sheets. She didn’t want to think about Ethan. Not now.

She turned onto her side and exhaled, letting sleep take her.

Michael stood in front of his closet, debating between two shirts that looked almost exactly the same. One was a soft navy, the other a muted forest green. Both clean, both ironed. He wasn’t even sure why he cared this much , it was just the Freshers Art Night, not a red carpet event. But something in him wanted to show up right.

He settled on the navy shirt. It matched his skin tone better

In the mirror, he gave himself a quick once-over. His hair : Slightly neater than usual. Shirt: Tucked . Sneakers: Clean enough. He didn’t look like he was trying too hard, just presentable.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and paused for a moment, reaching for the leather journal on his desk. He flipped it open and wrote in quick, tidy lines:

DAY 4 – STAY GROUNDED

• Joined the Christian society, good vibe.

• Freshers Art Night tonight — go with an open mind.

• You came here to grow. Don’t hide.

• Be kind.

• Stay focused. No distractions.

• Keep showing up.

He underlined the last sentence twice, then closed the journal with a small thud. For a second, he considered scribbling something about her ; the girl in the lift , but decided against it.

If he was ever going to see her again, fate would handle that.

He grabbed his jacket, locked his door, and headed out into the crisp night air. The city buzzed with motion — laughter spilling from the corners of buildings, music thumping from distant speakers, and the smell of fried something wafting from a food truck nearby.

By the time Sarah got to the art gallery, it was already pushing six in the evening. She was supposed to be there by five. Four, at least. " I know, I know. I wasn’t supposed to be this late," she muttered to herself as the Uber turned onto the gallery’s street. But she needed that sleep. Badly. Between classes, the meeting with Isiah, and trying to mentally prepare herself for three nights of smiling and standing and small talk with strangers, that nap had been survival. Now the street outside the gallery was busy, buzzing with movement. Cars lined both sides, headlights flashing as people dropped off equipment or pulled out onto the road. A small moving truck was parked just ahead, and a man with thick gloves was carefully unloading artwork wrapped in clear bubble wrap.

As Sarah stepped out of the Uber, adjusting her coat, the man caught her eye and gave her a polite nod. She returned it with a small smile, tightening the strap of her bag on her shoulder.

She had spent a little extra time on herself today. It was Freshers Art Night—Day 1. She’d known the gallery would be full of people: students, art collectors, staff, probably even journalists. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone, not really. But still. She had pulled out her long black leather jacket, layered it over a black bodysuit that hugged her comfortably and tucked it into a pair of blue high-waisted jeans. The jeans weren’t scandalous or tight to the point of discomfort, but they fit just right, with a soft curve that flattered her in the mirror.

The neckline of the bodysuit dipped a little lower than she’d normally wear. Just enough to show a hint of cleavage. Not too revealing,she had decided earlier, giving herself a final once-over. She finished the outfit with clean white high-top sneakers. A touch of gloss on her lips. And her hair, her curls were damp but shiny, falling neatly around her face and shoulders after she’d taken the time to moisturize and define them properly. No frizz. No tangles.

She looked at herself in the mirror before she left and couldn’t help but pause.

She looked good as fuck.

Tempting, even.

Not that it mattered to anyone. But it mattered to her. Lately, she’d started to believe in that quote people threw around: When you look good, you feel good. People treat you better. And after everything she’d been through, she wasn’t going to dull herself down anymore.

The Uber ride had been short, but mentally, she had gone over every possible reaction she might get from being late. Maybe Isiah would call her aside. Maybe someone would throw a snarky comment. She was already bracing herself.

But when she walked in, the place was chaos in a good way. People were everywhere. Gallery assistants adjusting lights, ladders leaning against walls, the front desk cluttered with paperwork and name tags, and someone shouting instructions from the far end of the room. Everyone seemed too busy to even notice her come in.

She exhaled. The manager wasn’t even around yet.

Still, her arrival didn’t go entirely unnoticed. A few of the workers, two men carrying a large framed canvas paused briefly when she stepped inside. She felt their gaze on her as she made her way toward the hallway, tugging at her jacket as if to subtly cover herself more. Her cheeks warmed.

Surely it’s not what I’m wearing.

She straightened her posture. Held her head a little higher.

I’m a confident woman. Act like it. She joined her coworkers, slipping quietly into the familiar rhythm of the gallery prep. Alice, ever chatty, caught sight of her and did a double take.

“You look so good,” she said, eyes widening as she took in Sarah’s outfit. “God, I wish I had the confidence to dress like that.”

Sarah turned, adjusting the spin-the-wheel board they were setting up near the entrance. “Oh come on, don’t say that,” she replied, voice light. “I have my own fair share of insecurities too, y’know.”

Alice gave a small smile but didn’t respond. For a moment, Sarah wondered if her presence sometimes made Alice feel smaller. There were times she’d caught her coworker staring a bit too long, eyes clouded with something between admiration and comparison. She hoped it wasn’t leading to low self-esteem . Sarah didn’t see herself the way others seemed to.

Outside, music began to play , a mellow, upbeat rhythm that floated through the gallery’s open doors. Students trickled in slowly, some in groups, others alone, their chatter rising in harmony with the buzz of the evening. The LED lights lining the building’s front shifted between blue, red, and green, dancing softly beneath the glowing banner: FRESHERS ART NIGHT.

Sarah smiled. There was something about it. The color, the sound, the low hum of something new beginning , that filled her with a subtle kind of joy. A flicker of nostalgia mixed with hope. She was genuinely glad to be there.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a student event without a few bold admirers. Two or three guys had already approached her, circling around the spin wheel or loitering too long near the desk. She politely brushed them off with short replies and practiced smiles.

One, in particular, leaned in a little too close. His sunglasses still perched on his head even though it was nearly dark, a cocky grin plastered on his face.

“My private golf club’s just around the corner,” he said, pointing over his shoulder toward a sleek, black car parked outside. “You should stop by. Was kinda hoping to see you there.”Sarah forced a small, polite smile — the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. “We’ll see,” she said simply, already turning her attention elsewhere.

"Ethan vibes", she thought with a quiet sigh. Just another spoiled rich guy who thought money was the center of the universe. Flashy car, arrogant tone, rehearsed lines. She had seen this kind of man before , they were all surface. No depth. No substance.

Michael cycled to the event, his navy shirt buttoned neatly under a charcoal jacket. He’d taken his time getting ready. No classes meant he had the day to himself . He’d done a light study session in the morning, solved a few practice questions, cleaned up his space, and now he felt ready to wind down. He smelled fresh , something woodsy and clean, crisp even. Sharp. Confident. His camera hung securely across his body. Tonight, he was going to take shots that mattered.Outside the venue, the air was buzzing with music and low chatter. Strings of lights flickered above, casting a warm, festive glow.

Near the building, Michael leaned casually against the wall beside his bike, sipping a bottled drink and chatting with a few guys he’d met during orientation including Revi, the Indian guy with glasses and a quick sense of humor.

"But you grew up in London, right?" Revi asked, tearing open a pack of instant ramen as they all sat on a low ledge.

"Yeah. South side," Michael replied, nodding. "Lived there all my life."

"Must be wild living in a place like that," one of the other boys chimed in. "City never sleeps, right?"

Michael chuckled. "It sleeps... just with one eye open."

They all laughed.

"And the girls, bro?" Revi added with a grin, nudging him. "Tell us the truth London girls or uni girls?"

Michael shook his head, smiling. "You lot are unserious."

Revi winked. "We just like information."

As they ate and bantered, Michael noticed a small group of girls across the way whispering and glancing in their direction. One of them giggled. He caught her eye for a moment and quickly looked away, heat creeping up his neck.

"You've been spotted, man," Revi said, laughing.

"Shut up," Michael muttered, laughing too.

A voice echoed through a nearby speaker , a woman with a mic standing near a tent: “If you’re passionate about art or interested in internship opportunities with galleries across the UK, do stop by to register. Students only. It’s a great chance to connect.”

A short queue had already formed.

On the other side of the courtyard, a barbecue stand was serving hotdogs and fizzy drinks. The smell drifted in the air. Students crowded around the “spin the wheel” game, hoping to win prizes , art supplies, free gallery passes, even meal vouchers.

The group decided to split up.

“Let’s go check inside,” Michael said, glancing at Revi.

Revi nodded, wiping his hands and tossing the ramen pack. “Let’s go.”

They stepped into the main gallery. The lighting changed instantly . Softer, dimmer, golden reflections dancing on polished floors. The walls were adorned with artwork from contemporary and emerging artists. Some abstract, others hyperreal. Some priced at thousands, others labelled with student discounts.

Michael’s fingers reached instinctively for his camera. “This is insane,” he whispered.

Revi was already walking toward a large oil painting of a girl with silver tears streaming down her face. “Yo, this one’s haunting.”

Michael nodded. “Beautiful though. Looks expensive.”

“Definitely above my rent,” Revi said with a smirk.

Michael focused his lens and took a few shots, adjusting the frame slightly. But he avoided taking too many for now. He didn’t want to draw attention. This wasn’t just about the art. It was about the experience, the atmosphere. He wanted to take it in slowly

Sarah sighed inwardly, pressing her fingers against her temple as she tried to understand why men , some men just couldn’t take a hint. She was working. It wasn’t the time or place for flirtation, but somehow, that didn’t stop the sunglasses guy and his friends from hovering earlier like moths to a flame. Did they think persistence was attractive? It wasn’t.

Thankfully, Alice had come to her rescue, tugging her inside with some excuse about an “urgent” setup that needed her help. Sarah followed without protest. She didn’t want to see those losers again.

Inside, the gallery air was cooler. She moved towards her station, hands adjusting the tag hanging around her neck. She was still getting used to this — working, balancing, performing politeness while internally sighing every five minutes.

A sudden flash broke her focus.

She turned instinctively toward the light, her eyes landing on the source , a camera. A tall figure in a navy shirt, jacket draped casually over his arm, camera now lowered as if he’d been caught mid-shot. Her gaze traveled upward, locking onto a face.

Him.

Her breath caught for a moment. The same soft expression. That quiet confidence in the way he stood. His curls were a little messier than she remembered. And yes , it was definitely the same scent she’d caught in the elevator, faint even from here.

He looked just as surprised. His eyes dipped briefly to her work tag, realization dawning on his face. She worked here.

Before anything more could pass between them, a middle-aged man stepped in front of her , a customer, clearly asking about a piece near the back wall. Sarah blinked, pulled from the moment, and nodded politely, already switching to professional mode.

But her eyes flicked back toward him. Just once.

He was still looking at her.

Neither of them said a word, but something had shifted. The recognition. The quiet pull.

Maybe this night would be more than just art and music after all.

.