Splinters and Smoke

Saturday – Mid-Morning – Campus Café

The bell above the café door chimed softly as Clara stepped inside. The air was thick with espresso and murmured conversations. Students leaned over laptops and textbooks, but Clara scanned past all of them — looking for one face.

Sylvie.

She sat by the window, latte untouched, long fingers scrolling through her phone with a smug slowness that made Clara's blood simmer.

Clara walked up, spine straight. "Sylvie?"

Sylvie looked up with a smirk. "I was wondering how long it'd take."

"Mind if I sit?"

"Oh, please do. I love a little drama with my caffeine."

Clara sat down slowly. "I don't want drama. I want clarity."

Sylvie raised a perfectly arched brow. "You think I'm here to steal your broody boyfriend?"

Clara didn't blink. "I think you showed up out of nowhere and rattled him. I want to know why."

Sylvie leaned back, swirling her spoon in the untouched latte. "Lucien and I were… chaotic. On and off. Mostly off. He was the kind of guy who'd kiss you like you were the only girl in the world… and then disappear for three weeks."

Clara's jaw tightened.

Sylvie continued, voice silky. "But when he was with me, he was honest. Raw. And you don't just forget someone like that."

"So what do you want from him now?"

Sylvie shrugged. "Closure. Maybe more. That's up to him."

Clara leaned in. "Let me be clear — I don't care about your past. I care about what you're doing now. Lucien's trying to become someone better. Don't drag him back just because you liked who he was when he was broken."

Sylvie's eyes flashed — but there was a flicker of something else there, too. Pain. Regret.

"Maybe I'm just trying to remind him who he really is," Sylvie said. "Before he lets someone like you paint over it."

Clara stood. "Maybe he's not hiding behind paint. Maybe for the first time, he's showing up."

Saturday Evening – Lucien's Apartment

Lucien sat on the edge of his bed, camera disassembled in his lap, every part cleaned and polished. A nervous habit.

When Clara knocked, he didn't expect her. Especially not with that storm in her eyes.

"You saw her," he said.

"I did."

"And?"

"She thinks she still has a claim on you."

Lucien looked down. "She doesn't."

Clara stepped in, arms folded. "Then why were you shaking when she showed up?"

He didn't answer.

"Lucien," she said gently, "talk to me."

He stood, walked to the window. The city buzzed below them, but up here, it was silent. Isolated.

"She knew me when I didn't want to be known," he said finally. "She saw all the parts of me I hated and said they made me interesting. That's not love — that's control. But I let it happen because… I didn't think I deserved anything better."

Clara stepped closer, placing a hand on his back. "And now?"

He turned. Met her eyes. "Now I'm terrified I'll mess this up. You… you make me want things. Things I'm afraid I'll ruin."

"You won't," she whispered. "But you have to let me in, completely. No more ghosts. No more running."

Lucien reached for her hand. "Then stay. Please."

She did.

Late That Night – Studio

Their piece was evolving.

Lucien's photographs now included fragments of his past — the worn couch from his childhood home, the alley he used to sleep in after fights with his father, the shadow of a bottle tipped on its side.

Clara painted over them — not to hide them, but to give them meaning. Light spilling from the cracks. Growth wrapped around old wounds. Gold where the pain had split him open.

"I'm scared people will see it and judge me," Lucien said softly, standing behind her as she added the final brushstroke.

"They won't," she said, brushing his fingers with hers. "And even if they do — you're not that person anymore."

He kissed the side of her head.

And for the first time in years, Lucien didn't feel like a fraud in his own life.

He felt seen. And somehow, he was still standing.