When the tulips Bloomed 🌷

Chapter 5: The Art Show

The art room smelled like turpentine and memories.

Posters lined the walls — splashes of color, sketches of dreams, fragments of who they all were when they thought the world revolved around this high school.

It was the annual spring art exhibition — Aria’s favorite day.

She’d spent weeks preparing her own piece, a self-portrait drawn in charcoal and sunlight. It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest — her smile soft, her eyes brighter than she really felt.

She arrived early with Gold and Ursula, her loyal partners-in-chaos. They carried snacks, teased each other, and tried to make her laugh. But Aria’s eyes kept drifting to the back corner — where Taylor’s easel stood covered with a white cloth.

He’d told her nothing about it.

> “You’ll see,” he’d said once, half-smiling. “It’s… personal.”

---

When the bell rang, the room buzzed with students and teachers.

Maya came late — clinging to Selly’s arm.

That hurt more than she expected.

Aria tried not to watch them. She told herself to focus on her art, on the compliments, on the music playing softly in the background. But when the lights dimmed for the big reveal, her heartbeat drowned out everything else.

The white cloth was lifted.

Gasps. Then whispers.

On the canvas — Selly.

Her smile painted in golden light, her hair brushed like sunlight on honey, eyes that looked too alive to be just art.

It was beautiful.

It was cruel.

Aria felt her stomach twist. The sound around her blurred into nothing.

Gold’s hand found her arm. “Ari…” she whispered, “don’t look.”

But she couldn’t stop looking.

Taylor stood by the painting, awkward, scratching his neck. Selly was pretending to be shocked — but the way she covered her mouth looked more like pride.

Aria stepped back, her throat dry. “Excuse me,” she murmured, and walked out before anyone saw her eyes fill.

---

Outside, the sky was gray again.

It had the same smell as that day — the day he confessed, the day she started to believe in him.

She sat under the old oak tree and pulled her knees close.

She thought about the drawing she’d asked for — her portrait, the one he refused to make.

He had drawn it after all… just not of her.

Ursula found her there a few minutes later, holding a bottle of water.

“You don’t deserve that,” she said simply. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Aria gave a sad laugh. “Maybe he just chose better.”

“No,” Ursula said firmly. “He chose easy.”

---

That night, Aria tore the corner of her sketchbook and wrote:

> “Maybe love isn’t supposed to make you feel small.”

She folded the note, slipped it between her journal pages, and swore never to cry over him again.

But she did — more than once.