The Assignment

A week passed.

A week of silence, unanswered messages, and empty studio hours.

Clara had never realized how quiet her thoughts were until they stopped being filled with Lucien's voice. His one-word answers, his dry humor, his camera shutter clicking like a metronome as she painted.

She tried to lose herself in color again — in brushstrokes and music and the warm scent of linseed oil — but something in her rhythm had shifted.

It was harder to paint when her muse had gone ghost.

Tuesday – In Class

Madame Lefevre stood at the front of the room, waving a sheet of paper like a flag.

"I have your midterm collaboration prompts," she announced. "This will be your most ambitious piece yet — a fusion of photography and paint, body and light, emotion and structure."

Clara swallowed. She hadn't seen Lucien since the show. He hadn't dropped the class — she would've heard. But he hadn't come to class either.

Until now.

He walked in five minutes late, hoodie up, camera around his neck. His usual.

But something about his eyes looked dimmer. Or maybe just… heavier.

He didn't look at her as he took the seat beside her again.

Madame Lefevre handed them their prompt.

Theme: "Unmasking"

Mediums: Paint, Photography, Mixed Installation

Deadline: Two weeks. No extensions.

Clara stared at it. Of course.

Because the universe loved irony.

Lucien finally spoke, low enough for only her to hear.

"Want to switch partners?"

It hit her like cold water.

She turned her head slowly. "No."

He blinked. "Okay."

She could've asked him why he'd pulled away. Could've confronted the ache still stuck between her ribs.

But she didn't.

Instead, she said, "We already started something. I'm not quitting on it."

Lucien looked at her for a long moment. Then nodded.

"Neither am I."

That Afternoon – Back in the Studio

Clara laid out her paints in sharp, angry lines.

Lucien set up his tripod across the room, silent.

"So," she said without looking at him, "how do we unmask someone?"

Lucien didn't answer right away. Then: "Let them unravel."

She turned to him. "You speak like you've done this before."

He gave a faint smirk. "I photograph people, Clara. They do it themselves eventually."

She studied him. "Will you let me photograph you?"

Lucien stiffened.

Clara stepped forward. "You always stay behind the camera. What are you so afraid of being seen?"

Lucien didn't answer. But he didn't say no either.

She reached over, lifted his camera slowly from the tripod. Held it up. Focused.

His face was angled away — profile shadowed, hair falling over his brow — but his eyes flicked up to meet hers just as she clicked the shutter.

Snap.

Raw. Unscripted.

Unmasked.

A Day Later – In Lucien's Apartment

Clara had never been to his place before.

It was… sparse. Clean, but not in a warm way. Like he didn't plan to stay long.

Black-and-white prints lined the walls, some framed, some pinned with thumbtacks.

One photo stood out: a woman in scrubs, asleep on a kitchen table, her face pressed to a textbook.

Lucien noticed her staring. "My mom. After a night shift."

Clara smiled softly. "She looks strong."

"She is."

"And your dad?"

Lucien's jaw tightened. "Gone. Or maybe just… gave up. After she died."

Clara nodded, gentle. "Mine were a mess before they found each other."

He looked at her, surprised. "You?"

She laughed. "Yeah. My dad nearly threw away his entire career over a fight with my mom when they were still in college. They figured it out… but it wasn't perfect."

Lucien sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees. "I don't know how to do perfect."

Clara leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Good. Because I'm not asking for it. Just honesty."

They sat in silence.

Then Lucien said, voice rough, "That painting at the show… it scared me."

"I know."

"Because it was… me. The version I want to believe could exist."

Clara's throat tightened. "Then let's build him. Together."

Lucien's gaze lifted to hers.

Slowly, like testing the air, he stood. Walked toward her.

She didn't move.

He stopped inches away. His voice barely above a whisper. "You still want to see me?"

Clara's heart beat like thunder. "Yes."

Then—quietly, gently—he kissed her.

Not like in a movie. Not rushed. Not perfect.

But real. Unmasked.

Like two people finding truth where they'd once found fear.