Chapter 6: Fragments and Flyers

I woke up before the alarm today.

There was no alarm, of course. But still—I opened my eyes on my own, without the heaviness that usually anchored me to the mattress. A subtle shift. A small click inside the machine of me.

Pride noticed first.

"Awake Already?," he said, sipping imaginary coffee with an air of victory. "Voluntarily. No threats or caffeine bribery involved."

"Even folded the blanket," Gluttony pointed out. "I mean, attempted to. Kind of. It's abstract folding. Modern art."

"This feels suspicious," Envy muttered. "No one wakes up like that unless something's brewing."

"Maybe it's love," Lust gasped, hands clasped dramatically. "Did someone catch their eye at the corner store? Was it the barista? Was there latte foam shaped like destiny?"

"Love?" Wrath laughed. "he barely makes eye contact with his own reflection."

"Actually," I said, rubbing the back of my neck, "I was thinking… maybe I'd go to that art exhibit tonight."

Silence.

All of them stared at me with eyes wide open as if they heard a shocking news.

"YES!" Gluttony hollered, tossing imaginary confetti.

"We need to prepare," Pride said, already inspecting my wardrobe like it was a battlefield.

"Can I come?" Sloth asked, still buried under a blanket. "Like... emotionally?"

"I want updates," Lust said. "Romantic tension. A brooding painter, perhaps. Someone who makes sculptures with pain and eye contact."

I held up the flyer I'd picked up from the café corkboard:

"FRAGMENTS – Local Art Night. One night only. Come as you are."

Somehow, that last line felt like an invitation meant specifically for me.

I folded it again, neatly, like it was something sacred.

I spent the day trying to not think about the exhibit… by thinking about literally everything else.

What if it was packed? What if I said something awkward? What if I tripped into a sculpture and set off a chain reaction that took out an entire wall and they had to ban me from the entire art district?

"You're spiraling," Pride said calmly. "Stop it."

"It'll be fine," Sloth yawned. "Probably. Statistically. Maybe. Let me nap on it."

"Worst case," Wrath offered, "you make a dramatic exit, flip a table, and never go back."

"Comforting," I mumbled.

At 6:40 PM, I put on my cleanest hoodie, ran my fingers through my hair, and stood in front of the door.

"You've got this," Lust whispered with a wink.

"Don't forget to blink," Gluttony added. "People love that."

"Good posture!" Pride barked as I stepped out. "Chin up! You're representing Room 7!"

The gallery was tucked between a stationery store and a bakery that smelled like warm cinnamon. Everything about it felt like a pocket of time just slightly removed from the rest of the world.

A small chalkboard outside read:

"Fragments: For everyone still in the middle of the story."

Inside, it was cozy and glowing. Yellow lights, quiet jazz, and the warm hush of people trying not to sound too impressed. The air smelled faintly of paint and cinnamon cookies.

The Sins hovered around me, invisible but fully present.

"Is that cheese?" Gluttony squeaked from over by the refreshment table.

"Focus!" Pride hissed.

"I am focused," Gluttony argued. "Focused on those cheddar cubes over there."

"It's a cheese-adjacent experience," Wrath muttered. "Let him have his joy."

I wandered, unsure where to start.

The art was unlike anything I'd expected.

Messy. Bold. Personal.

Paintings made from stitched-together scarves. Polaroids of people crying and then laughing. A sculpture of a heart made out of broken watch parts and copper wire.

"This place is like a scrapbook exploded," Wrath said. "And I kind of love it."

"Oh, look at that piece," Lust gasped. "It's just a mirror with the words 'Still Becoming' painted across it. Poetic and a selfie opportunity." as she proceeds to mimic selfie poses she saw on a magazine. 

I laughed out loud.

And someone turned to look.

She was there again.

The old woman from the bench.

Same quiet presence. Different cardigan. A bright yellow one this time, like a lemon drop in human form.

She was standing in front of a wall lined with black-and-white photographs of strangers embracing.

We made eye contact, and she smiled—small, familiar.

"You came," she said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"So did you," I replied.

"Well, I am in one of the paintings," she said, eyes twinkling. "But don't tell anyone. They'll expect me to sign autographs. I don't bring a Sharpie around with me anymore."

I smiled. Not a grin, not a polite twitch—just something soft and real.

"This place is lovely," I said, softly.

"It's honest," she replied. "People bring their mess here and hang it on the wall. Not to show off. Just to say, 'Look. I survived this.'"

We walked together through the gallery, stopping here and there to admire a brushstroke or a quote or the way someone had stitched lyrics into a scarf.

No pressure to speak.

Just company.

She told me one of the photos was taken the day she beat cancer. Another piece, a sculpture of tangled thread, belonged to someone who used to be afraid of their own voice.

We lingered in front of a painting that showed a child's bedroom, but the bed floated off the ground. The ceiling was painted with constellations shaped like words.

A tiny card beneath it read:

"Hope can be weightless, even when you're not."

My throat tightened.

"That one," I whispered. "That one feels like... me."

"Then take it with you," she said gently.

"It's not for sale."

"Not the painting," she said, smiling. "The feeling."

Outside, the air had that peaceful chill that follows a gentle evening.

I walked slower this time.

Hands in my pockets. The folded flyer still tucked in one like a talisman. Heart a little louder than usual.

For once, I didn't want to run from it.

When I stepped back into Room 7, I looked around the room. My room.

The same frayed carpet. The same wobbly table. But it felt... different, Lighter.

"So How do you Feel?" asked Pride.

"I didn't panic," I continued "I didn't vanish. I laughed. I connected. And... I liked it."

A pause.

Then Sloth clapped once, very slowly.

"Growth."

"You should write about it," Envy said softly, surprising even himself.

"Already planning to," I replied, heading toward the notebook on my desk.

That night, I wrote:

"I am not whole yet. But I am gathering pieces.Kindness. Laughter. Art.A yellow cardigan and cheese cubes.And maybe one day, I'll call them mine."

And somehow, that felt enough.

At least for now.