Chapter 16 — The Art Show, the Almost-Love, and That Damn Painting

Narrator: Noa is invited to submit a piece for an underground "erotic expression" art show. At first, she wants to decline, but Reno pushes her to use it as a way to reclaim her narrative on her terms. She draws their chaotic journey so far, full of comedic moments, confusion, and a little too much bubble wrap.

But when the show opens, her piece goes viral again. A mysterious collector offers to buy it. Reno is supportive... until he realizes Noa might be distancing herself. The night ends with an argument in the rain, a half-kiss in an elevator, and the emotional cliffhanger: Noa saying, "I need to figure out who I am without you."

The email came at 2 a.m.

Subject: *CALL FOR ART — Erotic Expression Show (Invite Only)*

Message: *Submit something brave. Something honest. Something that makes you sweat.*

Noa stared at the screen.

Brave?

Honest?

She'd spent the past few weeks filming bathtub scenes with a man who technically didn't exist.

She was already sweating.

---

Reno was immediately enthusiastic.

"This is perfect," he said, shirtless, holding a yogurt lid like a monocle. "We turn our chaos into culture."

Noa frowned. "It's not supposed to be… *us*."

"But we are art."

"You're chaos. I'm damage control."

He flopped dramatically onto the couch. "Exactly! Balance. Like that painting of dogs playing poker, but hornier."

She rolled her eyes but opened her sketchbook.

---

What she created was not what she expected.

It wasn't just them in a bathtub or covered in bubble wrap.

It was fragments.

Panels.

Her yelling at him in the kitchen.

Him watching her sleep like a confused Disney prince.

The fondue fountain at the launch party.

Their almost-kiss under the disco peach.

It was funny, chaotic, and strangely tender.

It felt like truth.

---

The night of the show, they arrived at the venue—an old cinema turned gallery.

Inside: red lights, champagne in test tubes, and a room full of very attractive people pretending to be unimpressed.

Noa's piece was already framed on the main wall.

Titled: *"Almost: A Study in Sketches and Self-Destruction."*

Reno stared at it, then at her.

"You drew all of that…?"

She nodded.

He smiled. "You made us look stupid and beautiful. That's… pretty accurate."

---

A woman in a velvet blazer approached.

"Hi, I'm Cléa. Art curator. I love the chaos in your lines. The narrative tension. The passive-aggressive shadows."

Noa blinked. "Thanks?"

"Would you consider selling it?"

Reno's expression didn't change—but his hand dropped from her shoulder.

Noa hesitated. "Maybe. I mean… I wasn't expecting—"

"Ten thousand. And a spot in our Berlin exhibition."

Noa's breath caught.

Berlin?

Ten grand?

Real artist things?

---

After Cléa left, Reno was quiet.

Too quiet.

Noa touched his arm. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'm just wondering if that painting is our happy ending or your exit strategy."

She froze.

"That's not fair."

He shrugged. "Neither is falling for someone who might be sketching their escape."

---

They didn't speak much after that.

Until the rain.

It came fast, hard, and cinematic.

They stood under a flickering streetlamp like two people in a season finale.

"I didn't mean for the painting to hurt you," she said.

"It didn't," he replied. "It just made me realize something."

"What?"

"I think I'm real because of you. But you… you need to figure out if you're real *without* me."

She stared at him.

He stepped closer.

"I'd kiss you now," he said, voice rough. "But I don't want to be the reason you stay."

Then he walked away.

---

She found him later.

In the elevator.

Dripping wet. Hood up. Hands shaking.

He looked up. "Hi."

"Hi."

They didn't speak for a while.

Just stood there.

The doors closed.

The elevator hummed.

She stepped closer.

So did he.

Their faces inches apart.

This time—no audience. No cameras. No lighting cues.

Just breath.

And trembling.

And…

Her phone rang.

She flinched.

The moment broke.

He laughed. "Of course."

She didn't answer.

She just whispered, "I need to figure out who I am without you."

And stepped out.

The doors closed.

---

That night, she didn't sleep.

She drew.

Page after page.

No Reno.

Just her.

Her face.

Her hands.

Her silence.

---

And at the very end…

She flipped to a new page.

Blank.

And wrote one word in the center:

*Begin.*