Chapter 45: Things left unsaid

Luna cleared his throat, still red-faced, as he glanced at the ruined painting. "I guess… that one probably wasn't gonna make the exhibition anyway," he mumbled, the words tumbling out like pebbles down a hill. "Might be for the best."

Rachel's eyes sparkled behind her lace-detailed mask, the corners of her lips curving into a smirk that no one could quite call friendly if it could be seen. "Hmm," she hummed softly, noncommittal, like she hadn't just caught the ghost of a moan on the surface of her ruined canvas. "Perhaps."

She turned, graceful as silk, and let the silence stretch like taffy as she gingerly knelt down and lifted the canvas with both hands. No harsh movements. Just an artist admiring her work—its damage, its fragility, its new, suspicious texture.

For a few moments, she said nothing at all, standing before the easel with her head slightly tilted. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking—if she was mourning the piece, or silently screaming. Maybe both.

Then, almost dreamlike, she turned away. "It's late," she said, her voice feather-soft. "I think this is a good time to close up."

She moved methodically, as if rehearsed, gathering her brushes, phone, and sketchbook with effortless precision. Luna hovered near the doorway like a schoolboy after detention, unsure if he was about to be scolded, hugged, or escorted off the premises entirely.

Rachel didn't ask him to stay. She didn't ask him to leave, either. She simply beckoned with a gloved hand, a fluttering gesture that had more command in it than shouting ever could.

Luna followed.

Once outside in the corridor, Rachel flicked off the studio lights one by one, each switch clicking down like punctuation marks in a silent sentence. Luna stood in the dim hallway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, chewing the inside of his cheek like it owed him rent.

His thoughts chased themselves in circles.

She knows. She has to know. Did I leave something on the floor? Did I smell like sweat and sin?

Click.

The last light went out.

Rachel emerged, locking the door behind her with a soft snick. She didn't speak as they walked, her heels quiet against the linoleum. Luna stumbled alongside her, his entire posture a question mark in human form.

Rachel, of course, walked like an exclamation.

He fidgeted with his cuffs. She adjusted her mask.

He tried to speak—then swallowed it.

She didn't look at him once.

And that silence? That dreadful, glacial, silken silence?

It was louder than any accusation he'd ever heard.