Shadows By The Poolside

New Beginnings

The excitement surrounding Noah’s twentieth birthday slowly faded as university life returned to its usual routine. Lectures resumed, assignments piled up, and the campus quickly became consumed by the familiar chaos of deadlines and responsibilities.

For everyone else, the events of the previous week had become another piece of temporary gossip. The whispers had reduced, fewer students stared when Arielle walked by, and life appeared to move forward.

But for Arielle, things were not that simple.

The rumours might have faded, but the damage they left behind remained. She still remembered every accusation, every careless comment, and every moment she had felt judged by people who did not truly know her. The confidence she once carried so effortlessly had slowly begun to disappear, especially when she sat down to write.

Writing had always been her escape. It was the one place where she never questioned herself. Words came naturally to her, allowing her to express emotions she struggled to say aloud.

Now, they refused to come.

Her notebook sat open on the library table, the title of her Creative Literature assignment written neatly across the first page. Beneath it, however, there was nothing but empty space.

Arielle stared at the page for several minutes before sighing.

“I’ve officially run out of ideas,” she whispered.

She picked up her pen and attempted another sentence.

The rain fell softly across the—

She stopped and immediately crossed it out.

A few more attempts followed, each one ending the same way. By the time she leaned back in frustration, the page was filled with unfinished thoughts and abandoned sentences.

“You’ve been staring at that notebook for almost half an hour.”

The familiar voice made her look up.

Maxwell sat across from her, surrounded by neatly arranged textbooks and notes. Unlike Arielle’s chaotic pile of papers, everything on his side of the table was perfectly organised.

“I don’t think glaring at the page is going to make it surrender,” he said.

A small smile appeared on her face.

“I was hoping it might.”

“It doesn’t seem intimidated.”

She looked down at the notebook again.

“No. It really doesn’t.”

Maxwell watched her quietly. Over the past few weeks, he had noticed the change in her more than anyone else. The conversations that once came easily had become shorter, and the excitement she usually showed whenever she talked about writing had been replaced with uncertainty.

“What’s wrong?” he asked gently.

Arielle hesitated before closing the notebook.

“It’s not really the assignment.”

“Then what is it?”

She ran her fingers along the edge of the notebook.

“I don’t know how to write anymore.”

Maxwell frowned slightly.

“That’s not true.”

“It feels true.” She looked away. “I know what I want my stories to say, but I can’t find the words. I’ve never struggled like this before.”

She paused before continuing.

“I think those rumours affected me more than I wanted to admit. I kept telling everyone they didn’t matter, but now whenever I write, I start wondering if people will misunderstand my stories the same way they misunderstood me.”

Maxwell listened without interrupting.

He understood then that this was not simply about an assignment. Arielle was not struggling because she had lost her talent. She was struggling because something had made her doubt the very thing she loved.

After a moment, he reached across the table and pulled the notebook toward himself.

“May I?”

She nodded.

He looked through the pages, reading the unfinished paragraphs and crossed-out ideas. None of them were bad. In fact, they were exactly the kind of writing that had always made Arielle stand out.

When he finished, he closed the notebook and handed it back.

“You know what I think?”

Arielle raised an eyebrow.

“I’m guessing you’re going to tell me anyway.”

A small smile appeared on his face.

“I think you’re putting too much pressure on yourself.”

She looked unconvinced.

“That’s your advice?”

“Think about it. Before people started expecting your stories to be amazing, you wrote because you enjoyed it. Now you’re trying to prove that every piece has to be better than the last one.”

Arielle became quiet.

Because he was right.

“You’ve turned something you love into something you feel responsible for,” Maxwell continued. “Anyone would struggle under that kind of pressure.”

She released a slow breath.

“I don’t know how to stop.”

“You don’t force yourself to stop. You take a break.”

“I have an assignment due next week.”

“And staring at an empty page for hours isn’t helping.”

She laughed softly.

“That’s unfair.”

“It’s true.”

For the first time in days, her smile looked genuine.

After nearly three hours in the library, they finally packed their belongings. Arielle placed the notebook inside her bag while Maxwell checked the time.

“You should take the rest of the day off.”

She looked at him.

“My brain doesn’t know how to do that.”

“Then someone needs to teach it.”

“And who volunteered for that impossible job?”

Maxwell only smiled.

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

They left the library together, walking through the busy campus filled with students rushing between lectures. When they reached the path where they had to separate, Arielle adjusted her bag and smiled.

“I’ll try not to think about writing tonight.”

“Good.”

“I said try.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

She waved goodbye before disappearing into the crowd.

Maxwell watched her leave, but instead of heading back to his apartment, he slowed his steps.

Her words stayed in his mind.

“I can’t seem to find the words anymore.”

Maybe the problem was not that Arielle had lost inspiration.

Maybe she simply needed to remember what it felt like to enjoy life outside of writing.

By the time he reached the parking lot, an idea had already formed.

It was simple.

A day where Arielle didn’t have to prove anything.

A day where she could just be herself.

He unlocked his car, pulled out his phone, and sent her a message.

@Max: Get ready and meet me outside your dorm in fifteen minutes.

Her reply came almost instantly.

@Arielle: Why?

He smiled.

@Max: You’ll find out when I get there.

He placed the phone aside, started the engine, and drove away.

He didn’t know if his plan would work.

But he knew Arielle didn’t need another blank page.

She needed a new beginning.

*****

By the time Arielle received Maxwell’s text message, the afternoon sun had settled comfortably above the campus, bathing the university grounds in a warm golden light. Students drifted lazily between lecture halls, some hurrying toward afternoon classes while others lingered beneath the old trees that lined the central courtyard, grateful for the brief break before another round of assignments demanded their attention.

A few buildings away, the Fine Arts Department carried its own peaceful rhythm.

Unlike the noisy corridors of the Business and Literature faculties, the studios were unusually calm. The scent of fresh paint mingled with charcoal dust, while unfinished canvases rested quietly against the walls, each one waiting patiently for its artist to return.

Noah Carter stood before an easel near one of the tall windows, carefully cleaning the edges of a landscape painting he had been working on for several days. His movements were slow and deliberate, every brushstroke measured with the patience of someone who believed rushing art was the quickest way to ruin it.

Across the room, Emily sat with one leg tucked beneath her on a wooden stool, absentmindedly sketching into the corner of her notebook. She paused every now and then, tilting her head thoughtfully before adding another careful line.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes.

The silence between them had long stopped feeling awkward.

Instead, it had become strangely familiar.

Emily finally lowered her pencil and studied the unfinished portrait in front of her before letting out a thoughtful hum.

“You know…”

Noah glanced over without looking away from his painting completely.

“Hm?”

“I’ve been thinking about something since yesterday’s lecture.”

“What is it?”

She rested her pencil against the spiral binding of her sketchbook, her expression unusually thoughtful.

“I think people misunderstand what art really is.”

That was enough to make Noah stop painting altogether.

He turned towards her with quiet curiosity.

“What do you mean?”

Emily smiled faintly.

“Most people think art is about recreating what your eyes can already see.” She looked down at the portrait again before gently shaking her head. “But I don’t think that’s what makes someone an artist.”

Noah folded his arms, listening.

“I think anyone can paint someone’s face,” she continued. “The difficult part is painting the version of them they never allow anyone else to see.”

She met his eyes.

“The best artists don’t simply paint appearances.”

“They reveal truths.”

The words settled between them with surprising weight.

For a long moment Noah said nothing.

He had spent years believing exactly that, yet he had never heard anyone express it so effortlessly.

Paintings had never fascinated him because they were beautiful.

They fascinated him because they revealed emotions people spent entire lifetimes trying to hide.

He looked back at his canvas before quietly saying,

“I’ve never heard anyone explain it like that.”

Emily smiled.

“My dad used to tell me that.”

She brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear before continuing.

“He always said a painting shouldn’t just impress people.”

“It should make at least one person feel understood.”

Noah found himself smiling.

“I think your dad was right.”

“I think so too.”

The conversation faded naturally as both of them returned to their work, but Noah’s thoughts lingered on her words much longer than he expected.

For the next half hour, only the soft scraping of charcoal and the occasional splash of water against glass jars disturbed the silence inside the studio.

Emily eventually leaned back, stretching both arms above her head.

“I think that’s enough for today.”

Noah rinsed another brush.

“Finished already?”

“My hand has officially resigned.”

He chuckled.

“I didn’t know hands could resign.”

“They absolutely can.”

She held up her charcoal-covered fingers with exaggerated seriousness.

“They simply refuse to cooperate after a certain point.”

Another laugh escaped him.

Emily looked up almost immediately.

“There it is again.”

“What?”

“That smile.”

He frowned slightly.

“What smile?”

“The one you’ve been doing all afternoon.”

“I’ve been smiling?”

“You have.”

“I don’t think I have.”

Emily pointed her pencil towards him with mock accusation.

“You’ve smiled at least four times since we started talking.”

Noah blinked.

“Have I?”

“You really don’t notice, do you?”

He looked away, suddenly finding his paint palette unusually interesting.

“I guess not.”

Emily studied him for another second before narrowing her eyes playfully.

“Were you staring at me earlier?”

His head lifted immediately.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“No.”

“You absolutely were.”

He hesitated just long enough for Emily to know she’d won.

“…Was I?”

She burst into laughter.

“For almost a whole minute.”

Colour rose faintly into Noah’s ears.

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You were.”

“It was nothing.”

Emily smiled to herself before closing her sketchbook.

“If you say so.”

Thankfully, she didn’t tease him any further.

Instead, she slipped her sketchbook into her bag and stood from the stool.

“I should head back before my roommate starts thinking I’ve moved into the studio.”

Noah nodded before gathering his own things.

“I’ll walk you downstairs.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

She smiled knowingly.

“But you want to.”

He gave the smallest nod.

“I do.”

Together they left the studio, descending the staircase side by side while afternoon sunlight poured through the glass windows overlooking the campus.

When they reached the entrance, Emily adjusted the strap of her bag before smiling at him.

“Thanks for keeping me company.”

“I should be thanking you.”

She looked surprised.

“For what?”

He thought for a moment before answering honestly.

“For reminding me why I enjoy painting.”

Emily’s smile softened.

“You’re welcome, Art Nerd.”

She waved before disappearing into the crowd of students crossing the courtyard.

Noah remained where he was for another few moments, watching until she vanished among the sea of unfamiliar faces.

Only then did he begin walking back toward the studio.

Halfway there, he stopped.

A thought had quietly crossed his mind.

When did talking to Emily become the easiest part of my day?

The question lingered longer than he expected.

Over the past several weeks, conversations with her had become effortless. They no longer struggled to fill silences because the silences themselves had become comfortable. Somewhere between shared assignments, long afternoons in the studio and discussions about colours, techniques and paintings, Emily had quietly become part of his daily routine.

Without realizing it…

He had begun looking forward to seeing her.

For just a brief moment, Arielle crossed his mind.

Not with regret.

Not with longing.

Only gratitude.

Years ago, he had buried feelings he knew could never be returned, choosing instead to become the brother Arielle believed him to be. Looking back now, he realized that decision had given him the chance to discover something quieter—something that asked for nothing except honesty and friendship.

A small smile found its way back onto his face.

Perhaps…

Life really did have a way of moving forward.

⸻

Meanwhile, in her dorm room on the other side of campus, Arielle stared at Maxwell’s message for what felt like the fifth time.

She stared at the words for several seconds before letting out an amused sigh.

“Typical Maxwell.”

Curiosity eventually won.

Closing the novel she had been trying—and failing—to read, Arielle climbed off her bed and walked toward her wardrobe.

Whatever Maxwell was planning…

She had exactly fifteen minutes to find out.