Unmasked

Chapter Six: The Girl In The Frame

My Monday didn’t include any classes.

Neither did Tuesday.

Damien didn’t call. The school didn’t either. But that didn’t surprise me. If I was being honest with myself, I hadn’t expected Damien to reach out, not really. I had turned my phone to silent sometime around dawn, pulled on the coziest hoodie I owned, and slipped into the only place I still felt like I belonged: the museum.

It wasn’t crowded. It was never on weekdays. I walked past the ticket desk like a ghost already haunting the halls. No one looked at me twice. That’s what I liked about it. I didn’t have to perform here. The walls didn’t care about what I wore or who I was pretending to be. The exhibits didn’t expect me to laugh or flirt or spin on cue.

They just were.

The sculptures were my favorite. They reminded me of people caught mid-thought— frozen in time with no need to explain themselves. One figure held her chin as if pondering something too heavy to say. Another stretched out an arm, forever reaching for something just beyond the pedestal’s edge. Their stillness made them feel more alive than most of the people at the penthouse party.

Eventually, I found myself in front of her again.

Girl in the Frame.

She was a painting I could never quite forget. Not famous. Not particularly grand. But striking. Always. Her hair was a wild, untamed halo around her head. Her eyes were tired but fierce, and in her hand, she held a paintbrush like it was a sword. There was a desperation in her grip, like if she let go, she’d disappear entirely.

She looked like me.

Or, maybe, the version of me I didn’t know how to admit still existed, the small-town girl who loved quiet things and messy expressions. Except this girl was braver. This girl looked like she knew who she was, even if the world didn’t.

I sat down on the bench across from her and pulled out my sketchbook. Slowly, deliberately, I started to draw. I didn’t rush. Every curve of her face, the tension in her fingers, the wild defiance in her posture, I captured it all. By the time I finished, the page felt heavy, like it held more than just pencil lines.

It held truth.

I tore it from the sketchbook, folded it once, and tucked it into a small, matte black box I’d brought with me. On the inside of the lid, I wrote four words with trembling fingers.

I want out.

Not just from Damien. Not just from the role I’d been performing. But from the silence. From the version of myself I’d manufactured for someone else's validation. The box was a confession. Maybe even a small act of rebellion.

Later that night, I turned my phone back on.

Twenty-three unread messages blinked into existence like tiny, unwelcome ghosts. Group texts from girls I barely knew.

One from Damien that simply said: “You're done sulking yet?”

And one, quietly sitting at the bottom, from Dominic.

Hope you found what you needed.

No demands. No accusations. Just... presence.

I stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering.

Then I typed: Thanks. I did.

The next day, school was a war zone I hadn’t been warned about.

I knew something was off the second I stepped through the main doors. The air shifted. Conversations dulled into whispers. Laughter trailed behind me like a bad smell. Eyes tracked me through the hallway. Some curious. Some mocking.

I didn’t need long to uncover why. Damien had spun a story.

Apparently, I’d been obsessed with him. Couldn’t handle the idea of losing him. So, naturally, I tried to seduce his older brother to make him jealous.

"I was desperate," he claimed. Unstable.

Pathetic.

And people believed him. Because that’s what people do when the lie fits the version of the truth they like better.

I clenched my jaw and walked through the crowd like nothing had changed. Like my skin hadn’t suddenly grown too tight. Like I didn’t want to scream until every whisper went silent.

Because if I gave them a reaction, they’d win. And I wasn’t about to lose again.