Episode 7
1081 Words
THE ART OF HOLDING ON AND LETTING GO
The gallery was quiet the next morning. Not empty—just peaceful. Ava stood barefoot on the cold hardwood floor, staring at the massive canvas she’d left unfinished.
It was a burst of color—reckless, raw, and unresolved. Like her. Like her life before the chaos stilled.
But this morning wasn’t about painting.
It was about reclaiming the final piece.
“I want to press charges.”
She sat in Mara Patel’s office, hands folded, voice steady.
Mara blinked. “Ava, that’s… it’s big.”
“I know,” she replied. “But so was the damage he caused.”
Mara leaned forward. “We can file for an emotional distress suit—there’s precedent. With Sasha’s testimony and the recordings, it’s no longer just your word against his.”
“And I don’t want money,” Ava said. “I want accountability. Even if it’s just symbolic.”
Mara nodded slowly. “Okay. Then let’s burn it down—legally, of course.”
By the time Ava left the law office, the weight was already lighter. Not gone. But finally moving.
Luca waited outside with coffee and a smug little grin. “You look like someone who just ordered revenge off the menu.”
She laughed and stole a sip. “More like a cleanse.”
“Let’s celebrate,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Luca, it’s Tuesday.”
“And justice doesn’t care what day it is.”
They ended up at a rooftop bar that overlooked the city skyline. String lights glowed overhead like fireflies. A DJ played chill remixes of old R&B songs, and the scent of citrus and summer clung to the air.
Ava wore a black satin top and jeans that finally fit the woman she was becoming.
They toasted with spicy margaritas.
“To truth,” he said.
“To peace,” she answered.
“To the hot girl era of emotional accountability,” Luca added with a wink.
She laughed so hard she nearly snorted.
But in between the laughter and second drinks, her phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
> You’ve made your point. Now leave me alone.
She stared at the screen. Her pulse didn’t spike. Her stomach didn’t drop.
Instead, she typed:
> I haven’t said a word. That’s the sound of your past finally speaking for itself. Enjoy the echo.
She hit send and turned her phone off.
No panic. No doubt.
Just boundaries.
Back at the studio the next morning, Ember stood in the doorway holding a cardboard box and looking way too smug.
“What’s that?” Ava asked.
“Proof the universe is on your side.”
Inside the box was Ava’s old sketchbook. The one she thought she lost in the breakup. Ember had apparently stolen it back from Cole’s place months ago, just in case.
Ava flipped it open. Pages filled with color, rage, longing. Raw sketches from years ago—portraits of herself that didn’t even know they were self-portraits. There were even unfinished concepts of a series she once called Unspoken.
Tears welled in her eyes. “I forgot who I used to be.”
“And you still became her anyway,” Ember whispered.
She spent the next few days painting like a woman possessed.
The Unspoken series poured out of her like a confession. Each canvas bared a version of her that had been silenced, shamed, or shadowed by Cole’s presence.
One painting showed a girl with her mouth sewn shut and her eyes on fire. Another showed hands reaching from a mirror, begging to be seen.
She called the series: The Versions He Buried.
And for the first time, she wasn’t painting to be understood.
She was painting to be free.
One night, as Ava painted late into the evening, Luca showed up with takeout and that look in his eyes that made her insides turn to lava.
“You haven’t eaten,” he said, handing her dumplings.
“I’ve been busy exorcising demons,” she said, gesturing to the paint-covered room.
He nodded like he got it.
And then: “Do you want to stay in this city forever?”
She blinked. “Where did that come from?”
He shrugged. “Just wondering. If this is home, or if it’s just a stop.”
Ava looked around—at the studio, the skyline, the echoes of pain now painted over in defiance.
“I think I needed this city to find myself,” she said. “But maybe someday I’ll need something quieter.”
Luca smiled. “Wherever you go, just make sure they have dumplings and good lighting.”
The press caught wind of Ava’s series, and within a week, a major gallery offered to feature her work.
The opening was planned for next month.
But something else happened first.
A letter arrived in the mail.
Not a text. Not an email.
A letter. Handwritten. Sloppy.
From Cole.
> I lost everything. I hope you’re happy. I don’t recognize myself anymore. Maybe you never did either. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I just… wanted you to know.
Ava read it once. Then again.
And then, slowly, she folded it up and burned it in a glass bowl.
Some things didn’t need to be kept. They needed to be released.
Two days later, the restraining order was granted.
Three years too late, but right on time.
She posted a single story on i********::
A selfie. No makeup. Red lipstick smeared like war paint. The caption read:
> “I’m not angry anymore. I’m free.”
Later that night, she curled up beside Luca on her tiny apartment couch, both of them full from pasta and wine.
“Do you think people can really change?” she asked.
He paused. “I think people can choose to.”
She looked at him. “And you?”
“I’ve made choices I regret,” he said quietly. “But none bigger than who I used to let hurt me.”
Ava reached for his hand. “Then maybe we both learned something.”
He kissed her temple. “That we’re worth more than survival?”
“That we’re worth softness,” she corrected. “And something real.”
As they fell asleep tangled in each other, Ava realized the war was over.
Not because she had won.
But because she had finally put down the sword.
- Writer
