CHAPTER 8 – Nothing’s Ever Just a Wall
1006 Words
It started with a blank wall and a stolen can of spray paint. Downtown. Just off the train tracks. Gray concrete—high enough to stretch, wide enough to scream on.
Mila’s breath fogged in the cold as she stepped back to check her outline. The R needed more weight. The crown didn’t sit right. She adjusted—quick and clean. Hoodie up. Headphones in.
The hiss of the spray can felt like an exhale.
Then— A shift.
A prickle at the base of her neck.
She froze. Glanced sideways.
Someone was there.
A guy. Leaning against a dumpster like he’d been part of the alley this whole time. Arms crossed. Watching.
She yanked out one earbud, hiss still ringing in her ear. “Back off,” she said.
“No questions,” he replied, hands raised, voice low. “Just watching.”
She kept the can tight in her grip.
When she finally dropped her arm, still wary, still breathing hard—he pushed off the dumpster.
“That was brilliant.”
Mila blinked. Didn’t trust it. “What?”
He nodded toward the wall. “The way you pulled green into the shadows? And the detail in the letter curves. That’s not tagging. That’s movement.”
She squinted. Still defensive. “You a cop or something?”
He laughed. Shook his head. “No. I just know genius when I see it.”
Later, he told her that night was the first time he’d felt quiet in weeks.
She rolled her eyes. “I’m the loudest person you’ll know.”
He shrugged. “Yeah. But it’s the kind of loud that silences everything else.”
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Mila sat on her bedroom floor, hoodie sleeves pulled over her fists. Her room looked like a thrift store explosion in recovery: posters, stacked sketchbooks, polaroids taped unevenly to the wall. A can of spray paint rolled lazily under her bed when she bumped it with her heel.
She wasn’t scrolling for nostalgia. She was looking for proof.
And there it was.
Her mural. The one from that night.
He’d taken the photo. Had made it his lock screen for a while.
She remembered the way he looked at her after she stepped back, paint on her knuckles, hair stuck to her cheek.
“Most people hide when they’re scared,” he said. “You just make something louder.”
And she’d believed him. Because with Mila, Jordan hadn’t tried to impress. He let himself be messy. Showed up in wrinkled tees, hair wild, thoughts half-shaped. Said she was his storm. Said being around her made him feel real.
She’d laughed, rolled her eyes, thrown pens at his head. But when he asked if she had anything no one else had seen— She showed him.
Her blackbook. Her best work. He treated it like scripture.
She knew better. Knew validation was addictive. But with Jordan, it hadn’t felt like flattery. It had felt… specific.
He noticed the rhythm in her stencils. The quotes she tucked into corners. The way she looped her A’s.
When her art teacher told her to clean it up, Jordan told her:
“Don’t. That grit? That’s your power.”
And for a second, she believed that too.
She swiped again.
A close-up of her tag from that night.
Make me a riot, and I’ll name you thunder.
He’d loved that line. Said it sounded like a spell.
Her phone buzzed. A DM from a finsta she didn’t recognize. No caption. Just a screenshot.
You make me feel like thunder.
Same line. Same lettering. But not hers anymore.
Mila stared. Didn’t move.
Of course. Of course he did.
She closed the photo app. Tossed her phone onto the bed. Rubbed her hands hard over her face.
This wasn’t heartbreak. This was theft.
He didn’t steal her time. He stole her fire. Bottled it. Sprayed it on someone else.
And she’d let him.
She stood. Started pacing.
He’d asked her to paint his name once. Said it would make things real.
She’d told him no. Not until he proved he meant it.
He laughed—soft, slow, low. Now she saw it for what it was.
He didn’t want real. He wanted proof. Another girl tagging his name like he was worth remembering.
She remembered how he held her after the community center gallery night—when her mural had been the main piece. How he leaned in, breath warm.
“You’re fearless,” he whispered. “The way you take up space—I wish I could be like that.”
It melted her then. Now?
It felt like a line he used when someone made him feel small.
She grabbed a marker. Walked to the mirror.
Drew a crown in the corner—sharp, deliberate.
Her tag. Not his. He didn’t get to own this.
She stepped back. Took it in.
Smirked.
Then whispered to her reflection: “Nothing’s ever just a wall.”
That’s what she’d told him the night they met. When he asked why she painted that wall.
“Because walls talk,” she said. “If you paint them loud enough.”
He said, “I want to be loud like that.”
And maybe he did. Maybe that’s why he dated her. Not for love. Not for lust. But because she was the one thing he didn’t know how to become.
Mila pulled her blackbook from the shelf. Flipped past old pages. Found a blank one.
Started sketching.
Thick lines. Harsh angles. Words like weapons.
At the top, she scrawled:
Not your riot. Not your thunder. Not anymore.
She didn’t cry. Didn’t scream.
But her hands shook.
She didn’t want him back. She wanted herself back. The version who never asked if her voice was too much. The version who made concrete flinch.
She capped the marker. Closed the book. Smiled—sharp, crooked, real.
There wouldn’t be ashes.
Just a name she refused to say.
And a wall that knew better now.
- Writer
