Quiet Storms

Rain tapped gently against the tall, smudged windows of the art studio, creating a rhythmic hush that filled the quiet space. Outside, the campus looked like a watercolor painting—gray, blurred, and dripping with the weight of the afternoon storm. Students rushed across the open walkways with jackets over their heads and bags clutched to their chests, avoiding puddles with uneven steps. The energy was hushed, like even the weather understood when it was time to be still.

Inside, Riley sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of the empty studio, her sketchbook resting across her thighs. She wasn't drawing. She hadn't even turned the page in over an hour. The smell of wet graphite, faint paint, and old turpentine lingered in the air, mingling with something heavier: disappointment.

She stared at the harsh black lines of her latest piece—scratches layered upon streaks, a chaos of emotion barely restrained. She'd drawn it the night before, after another sleepless stretch. And then she'd brought it in today, only to have the critique slice it down to nothing.

"This isn't structured," the instructor had said, flipping to the next student's work without a second glance. "Too emotional. Try something more conventional."

Riley didn't flinch at the memory, but her jaw set tighter. She wasn't sure why this one stung more than the others. Maybe because she'd poured more into it than usual. Maybe because she was tired of pouring herself out just to be told it wasn't good enough.

The door opened softly behind her. A familiar step, a presence that made her chest ease before she even looked up.

"Riley?" Emily's voice echoed in the studio, careful and warm.

Riley didn't turn around. "Hey," she said simply.

"I didn't see you at our spot." Emily walked in, the soles of her sneakers squeaking faintly against the linoleum. "Thought I'd check here."

"Guess I just needed... quiet," Riley murmured.

Emily sat down beside her without another word. For a moment, neither said anything. The rain was loud now, drumming against the windows like impatient fingertips.

"Bad critique?" Emily asked eventually, gently.

Riley let out a breath. "Yeah. Same old."

Emily tilted her head, studying the closed-off expression on Riley's face. "Wanna talk about it?"

Riley ran her fingers along the frayed edge of the sketchbook. "He said it wasn't real art. That it was messy. Raw in the wrong ways. Told me to do something more 'conventional.'" Her voice wavered slightly, but she masked it with a shrug.

Emily's lips parted slightly in disbelief. "That's ridiculous. Since when did art have to follow rules? Isn't that the whole point—expression?"

"That's what I thought," Riley said, finally turning to face her. "But maybe I'm just doing it wrong. Maybe I don't have what it takes to be taken seriously."

"Riley," Emily said, leaning in, her voice firm now. "Your art says things most people are scared to admit. It's not perfect, but it's true. That matters more than some box they want to stuff you into."

Riley's breath caught. She wasn't used to people standing up for her like that. Not without hesitation. Not without conditions.

"Can I see it?" Emily asked.

Riley hesitated, then turned the sketchbook so Emily could see. The drawing was layered and dark—jagged lines crossing smooth curves, shapes collapsing into each other like a storm of thoughts fighting for space. Sharp red lines burst across the paper like veins of panic.

Emily looked at it for a long time. "It's like… watching someone try to breathe underwater. It feels like drowning, but you don't want to look away."

Riley blinked. "You don't think it's just a mess?"

Emily met her gaze. "It's raw. But it's you. And that makes it beautiful."

Riley didn't know what to say. So she said nothing. But something in her shoulders relaxed, and she exhaled a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

They sat like that for a while, the world around them falling into soft silence. Outside, the storm had softened to a drizzle, and the studio light seemed warmer somehow.

Emily broke the quiet again. "When I first came here, I felt like I didn't belong. I still do, sometimes. But you... you make this place feel less cold."

Riley glanced at her, surprised. "I do?"

Emily nodded, a little embarrassed now. "Yeah. You don't pretend. You just... are."

There was a flicker of something between them—quiet, tender, unspoken.

"Sometimes I think…" Emily paused, then laughed nervously. "Never mind."

Riley turned slightly to face her, head tilted. "What?"

Emily looked down, fidgeting with a loose thread on her sleeve. "Sometimes I think I like you. I mean, I like you. Not just as a friend."

Riley's eyes widened slightly. A flush crept into her cheeks. "Emily…"

"I know it's dumb," Emily added quickly, "and I'm not trying to make things weird or anything. I just… I had to say it."

Riley's face turned warm, and she looked away, a shy smile tugging at her lips. "It's not dumb."

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Closer than before. The air between them changed.

Emily leaned in, slowly, breath catching. Riley mirrored her, uncertain but drawn forward.

They were barely an inch apart when the studio door creaked loudly. Someone had come in.

They both jerked back, startled and awkward. A student peeked in, then left as quickly as they'd appeared.

Riley exhaled a nervous laugh. Emily's face was pink.

"Next time, maybe," Riley whispered.

Emily nodded, still smiling. "Yeah. Next time."

They stood, gathering their things slowly. Outside, the rain had stopped. Puddles shimmered on the pavement, catching reflections of fading clouds and quiet hope.

And as they walked out side by side, Emily's hand brushed Riley's—just enough to leave a tingle behind.