HOW TO HIDE YOUR BLUSHES

Episode 19

WHEN THE WORLD STARTS WATCHING

Eden used to believe that secrets were safest when kept close to the chest. But now, she felt like a walking confession, every step echoing with the weight of the truth the campus had slowly uncovered. Whispers trailed her wherever she went—in the cafeteria line, in studio hallways, even in the bathroom stalls.

The message on her locker had been erased within hours. Officially, no one spoke about it. Unofficially, everyone did.

Her name had become a question. Her face, a rumor. And worst of all, her art—once a source of escape—was now under a microscope.

"Did you hear she only got the exhibition slot because she's sleeping with Aiden?"

"I bet he painted half of it. No way she had that much skill last semester."

"Typical. Quiet girls are always the most calculating."

Eden didn’t recognize the version of herself they saw. She didn’t feel powerful or strategic. She felt broken, exposed, and desperately tired of being reduced to a headline.

The exhibit was three weeks away, but the tension made every hour feel like a marathon. Aiden kept his distance on campus now—for both their sakes. Their meetings moved offsite, late evenings at his apartment or empty cafes on the edge of town.

And though their time together still felt like oxygen, it was laced with anxiety.

"They're investigating me," Aiden admitted one night, pushing aside his untouched coffee. "It's preliminary. The department wants to appear thorough."

Eden's heart sank. "Will you get fired?"

"I don't think so. Not unless they can prove we were involved before the assignment. Or that I used my position to influence your grades."

She stared into her mug, the tea long gone cold. "I don't want to be the reason you lose everything."

Aiden reached across the table and took her hand. "You’re not a reason to lose everything. You're the reason I remembered why I love teaching in the first place. Why I love creating."

Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. She didn't want to cry in public again.

Instead, she focused on what she could control: her art. Her piece for the exhibition now spanned nearly an entire canvas wall. It had evolved—no longer just a portrait of herself, but a raw, swirling timeline of the year she had survived. Colors bled into one another like memories. Words were scratched into the background in crimson and charcoal: shame, desire, truth, fire.

It was, in a word, fearless.

"You're not hiding anymore," Aiden whispered the first time he saw it.

"I'm done hiding," she said. "Even if the world keeps trying to make me small."

The next few days passed like a blur for Eden. The campus buzzed with gossip about her and Aiden, but her world had grown small—centered around late-night painting sessions, a few stolen moments of comfort in Aiden’s arms, and the constant, gnawing question: Would it all be worth it?

She was tired of fighting to justify herself, to explain away her feelings, to prove she belonged in that space. But she had no choice. The exhibition loomed. The pressure of showcasing herself—and her relationship with Aiden—to the world was suffocating.

One evening, as Eden walked into the studio, she noticed a stranger standing in front of her piece. The older woman was gazing intently at the mural, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Eden paused, half-expecting the woman to say something biting or judgmental, but instead, she smiled faintly and turned to her.

“You must be Eden Collins,” she said in a voice that carried both authority and warmth.

Eden hesitated before responding, her voice a little uncertain. “Yes, that’s me. Can I help you with something?”

“I’m Professor Thompson,” the woman introduced herself, offering a firm handshake. “I’ve been asked to review your exhibition piece for the senior selection committee.”

Eden blinked, shocked. “Wait, what? But it’s—it's not finished yet. It’s still... messy.”

Professor Thompson chuckled softly. “Art often is. Sometimes, the mess is the most telling part. I’m here to see the heart of it.”

The older woman walked closer to the canvas, studying it more intently now. “You’ve clearly poured a lot of yourself into this. The use of color, the chaotic energy—it’s not just a representation of a person, it’s a representation of your journey. The pain, the fire, the defiance... It’s raw. It’s real.”

Eden felt a lump form in her throat. No one had ever seen her work like this before, not with such care, such insight.

“Do you think it’s too much?” she asked softly, her voice vulnerable.

“Too much?” Professor Thompson raised an eyebrow. “I think it’s exactly what the world needs. What you need.”

Eden felt her heart skip a beat. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”

The professor smiled, her gaze softening. “Art isn’t about hiding your truth. It’s about expressing it—no matter who’s watching.”

Eden nodded, a sense of understanding settling over her. She’d spent so long hiding from her truth, from the fear of what others would think. But now, standing in front of the woman who had just validated her vulnerability, she realized something: maybe it was time to stop running.

Aiden arrived at the studio a few hours later, his expression a mix of exhaustion and concern. Eden immediately ran to him, throwing her arms around him. The anxiety of the past few days melted away, and for a moment, she could pretend that everything was still normal—that she wasn’t under a microscope.

“Hey,” Aiden whispered, resting his chin on her head. “How are you?”

Eden pulled back, her eyes shining. “I met with Professor Thompson today.”

Aiden raised an eyebrow. “The senior selection committee?”

“Yeah. She reviewed my piece.”

“And?”

Eden smiled, feeling lighter than she had in days. “She loved it. She said it was exactly what the world needs.”

Aiden exhaled in relief. “That’s amazing. See? I told you, you were born for this.”

Eden let out a soft laugh. “Maybe.”

“No. No maybe. You are. And don’t let anyone make you think otherwise.”

Aiden’s words filled her with warmth, a quiet confidence spreading through her. For the first time in weeks, she wasn’t consumed by fear. She wasn’t hiding anymore.

The next day, Eden couldn’t stop herself from painting with a renewed sense of purpose. Her brushstrokes were deliberate, sharp, and full of emotion. Every color on her palette felt like it was bursting with energy. She worked with the flow of her instincts, no longer hesitating or second-guessing herself. This piece was hers. All of it.

The hours passed quickly as Eden became lost in her art. And when the sun began to set, she stepped back to survey her work, surprised at how far she had come. Her journey—her transformation—was all laid out in front of her.

She had nothing left to hide.

The following days brought more changes. The whispers on campus didn’t stop. But the more she worked, the more focused she became. She couldn’t let anyone’s opinions dictate her future. The exhibition was about her, not the rumors.

One evening, as the show date drew near, Aiden came to her studio after his classes. His gaze immediately fell on the canvas, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re incredible,” he said softly. “This is more than I ever expected. You’ve turned your vulnerability into power.”

Eden smiled, a genuine, grateful smile. She couldn’t help but lean into him, feeling safe in his presence, feeling heard for the first time in so long. “Thank you for believing in me.”

“I always will,” he whispered. “No matter what.”

As the exhibition approached, Eden found herself in a constant whirlwind of emotions. There were moments of intense pride, followed by deep anxiety. What if she failed? What if the world didn’t accept her? And, most terrifying of all, what if Aiden was wrong?

But every time she faltered, she thought back to that moment with Professor Thompson—the way her art had been understood, celebrated even. That was the fuel she needed.

The day of the exhibition arrived, and Eden stood in front of her piece, heart pounding. She was prepared. She was ready.

The crowd gathered around her painting, murmurs of appreciation spreading through the room. For the first time, Eden didn’t feel nervous. She felt alive.

Aiden stood beside her, his hand warm in hers, and as she caught his gaze, she knew, deep down, that no matter what happened, she had already won.

That night, as they left the exhibition, Aiden turned to her, his face full of pride. “You did it.”

“I did,” Eden replied, her voice filled with awe. “We did.”

Aiden pulled her close, his lips brushing against her forehead. “And this is just the beginning.”