Chapter 10: Between The Cracks Of Silence
813 Words
The night had stretched long after Lysander’s quiet rejection, and Kaelith found herself wide awake, staring at the ceiling of her room, frustration curling in her chest like an untamed flame.
She should be used to this by now—to being unwanted, to being treated like an afterthought.
Yet, Lysander wasn’t like the others. He didn’t dismiss her with cruel words or outright hostility. No, his rejection was quiet, layered, like a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve.
And that only made her more determined to understand him.
Sleep was out of the question, so she pulled on a robe and wandered out of her room, bare feet silent against the cool marble floors.
The estate was eerily still at this hour, only the faint hum of the wind outside breaking the silence. She passed by halls filled with expensive paintings, rooms she had yet to explore. Everything about this place screamed wealth and isolation.
Then, her steps faltered.
Down the corridor, a soft glow spilled from a partially open door.
Curious, Kaelith moved closer.
It was a studio.
Her breath caught as she stepped inside. The scent of paint and turpentine filled the air, and the walls were lined with unfinished canvases, each one bursting with emotion.
But what stole her attention was the lone figure standing before an easel, his back to her.
Lysander.
His white shirt was splattered with paint, sleeves pushed up, exposing forearms tense with restraint. His fingers gripped a paintbrush, but he wasn’t painting—he was just standing there, staring at the half-finished piece before him.
Kaelith’s heart thudded against her ribs.
She had never seen him like this before. Unarmored. Vulnerable.
Slowly, she stepped closer. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
Lysander stilled, his shoulders tightening, but he didn’t turn.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice quieter than usual.
Kaelith ignored that. Her gaze flickered to the painting in front of him—a swirl of dark colors, chaos bleeding into beauty. It felt… aching, desperate, like someone screaming without sound.
“You never finished it,” she murmured, reaching out but stopping just before her fingers could touch the canvas.
His grip on the brush tightened.
“I don’t finish most of them.”
Kaelith frowned. “Why?”
Silence.
Then, he let out a slow breath, setting the brush down.
“Because when you finish something, it becomes real.”
His voice was laced with something unspoken, something heavier than mere words.
Kaelith swallowed. She knew that feeling all too well.
She hesitated before speaking. “What’s this one about?”
Lysander finally turned to look at her.
Their eyes met, and something passed between them—a quiet understanding, a thread of shared loneliness neither of them dared to name.
But then, he smirked, the moment slipping through her fingers like sand. “It’s just a painting, Kaelith.”
Liar.
But she didn’t push. Not yet.
Instead, she let her gaze wander to the other paintings stacked against the walls. Some were breathtakingly beautiful, others raw and untamed.
And then, she saw it.
A portrait of a woman.
Dark eyes, wild hair, a defiant tilt of her chin—Kaelith.
Her breath hitched.
Lysander stiffened as he followed her gaze, but he didn’t move to hide it.
“You painted me.”
It wasn’t a question.
Lysander’s jaw tightened. “It was just practice.”
Kaelith turned to face him fully. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
He held her gaze, unflinching. “Think whatever you want.”
She stepped closer. “Why won’t you admit it?”
His lips parted, but no words came out. Because he couldn’t.
Because admitting it meant acknowledging something neither of them were ready for.
So instead, he chose silence.
And Kaelith hated it.
But she also understood it.
Taking a step back, she forced a smirk. “Fine. Keep your secrets, Lysander.”
She turned to leave, expecting him to let her go.
But then—
“Kaelith.”
Her heart stopped.
She turned, only to find him closer than before.
Too close.
His eyes searched hers, something unspoken hanging between them. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for her.
Kaelith swallowed. “What?”
Lysander exhaled, looking almost… tired of himself.
Then, so softly it was almost a confession—
“You’re getting under my skin.”
The words sent a jolt through her chest.
She should say something. Should tease him, or push him, or make light of it.
But she couldn’t.
Because for once, they weren’t enemies. Weren’t two people trapped in an arranged marriage they never wanted.
For once, they were just Kaelith and Lysander.
Standing in a dimly lit studio, lost in the space between longing and restraint.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.
For now.
- Writer
