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It was just a beginner’s painting class, nothing fancy, but it felt like freedom.
That’s where I met Mark. He was the instructor, a widowed art teacher in his 40s with the gentlest sense of humor. He never made me feel stupid for not knowing the technical terms or for mixing colors wrong.
One evening after class, he looked at the painting I’d been working on and said, “You have the kind of beauty that lives in quiet details. Not the loud, obvious kind. The kind that makes people look twice.”
I think that’s when I finally realized I wasn’t broken.
I’d just been unseen for so long that I’d forgotten what it felt like to be truly looked at.
Meanwhile, Derek lost his job, and his savings started to dry up. That was when Tanya left him. She moved in with a personal trainer who was half Derek’s age and had twice his Instagram following.
Derek was devastated, according to our mutual friends. He’d actually thought she loved him.
He called me again, and this time he sounded pathetic. His voice was small and desperate in a way I’d never heard before.
“Lena, I miss home.
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