Confusion
The following days passed in a haze, each moment slipping through my fingers like sand. The weight of what had happened at the gallery clung to me, growing heavier with every passing hour. Sleep evaded me, and when it came, it brought nightmares—twisted, half-remembered fragments of Jack’s face, his words, the feeling of something pulling me deeper into the dark. I stopped going to the gallery. I couldn’t face it. Not after what had happened. Not after the painting of me, distorted, fractured, hanging there like a warning. But even as I tried to avoid it, the art kept calling to me. Whispers at the edges of my mind, coaxing me back. It was like the more I tried to forget, the more it became impossible to ignore. I found myself wandering the city at odd hours, drawn to places I wouldn’t n
- Writer
