Chapter 5

I don't know why, but that made me cry harder.

"Shit," I wiped at my eyes. "Sorry. I'm a mess."

"You're not a mess," Willard said, handing me his notebook. "You're just exhausted. When's the last time you slept?"

"I don't know. Friday?"

"Jesus, Olivia."

He opened his backpack and pulled out an energy drink and a bag of chips.

"Eat something. Then we work."

For the next few hours, we rebuilt that painting together.

He taught me weight distribution calculations. I taught him color theory. His hands were steady, holding the tiny metal pieces in place while I worked. Mine stopped shaking.

"If you're going to MIT for engineering, why even take art class?" I asked.

Willard paused, screwdriver suspended mid-air.

"Easy A," he said. "And... I like watching people create things."

"But you create too. I've seen your sketches."

He got defensive immediately. "Those are just doodles."

"Bullshit. They're really good. Why do you hide them?"

A long silence. Outside, a garbage truck rumbled past. Dawn was breaking.

"Because my parents think art is a waste of time," Willard finally said, voice flat. "STEM is practical. Art is... a hobby. Something you do after the important work is done."

He said it while staring at the pieces in his hands, not looking at me.

"That's bullshit," I said.

He looked up, something complicated in his eyes.

"Art matters just as much," I continued. "It's how we make sense of being human. How we feel things we can't put into words. That's not a hobby. That's survival."

Willard stared at me for a long moment. His eyes were dark brown, almost black in the dim light.

"You really believe that," he said quietly.

"Of course I do. Don't you?"

He didn't answer.

By 5 AM, we'd finally finished the draft and structural design.

We sat on the floor, backs against the wall, completely wiped out. My hands were covered in paint and grease, his hoodie had silver spray paint on it.

"Why art?" Willard asked suddenly.

I looked at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling.

"Because it's the only thing that feels real," I said. "When I create something, I feel... like I matter. Like I'm not just 'the poor kid' or 'the scholarship student.' I'm an artist. That's real. That's mine."

I felt stupid saying it out loud. "Sorry. That sounds dumb."

"No," Willard said, his voice soft. "It doesn't."

He turned to look at me. "I think that's the bravest thing I've ever heard."

My heart started beating faster.

He was close. Close enough that I could see the tiny specks of dust on his eyelashes, smell the mix of spray paint and coffee on him.

His phone buzzed.

Willard glanced at the screen and his face changed.

"Shit. I have to go."

He practically jumped up, gathering his things in a rush, his movements almost frantic.

"Willard—"

He stopped at the door, looking back. "Same time tomorrow night?"

I froze, then nodded.

"You're not trash, Olivia," he said. "Don't let them make you believe that."

Then he was gone.

I sat in the empty studio, heart still pounding.

On the walk home, the sun was already up.

Mom was in the kitchen, getting ready for her morning cleaning shift, and nearly jumped when she saw me.

"Mija, where have you been?!" She rushed over, checking me over. "You didn't come home all night! I was going crazy!"

"I was at a friend's," I lied. "Studying."

Mom looked at my paint-stained hands, worry in her expression.

"Olivia," she sighed, sitting on our worn couch. "I worry about you. You look so tired. Maybe... maybe you should take a break from all this art stuff. Focus on easier classes, get better grades..."

I felt stung.

"So you think I should quit too?"

"No! I just—" Mom's eyes welled up. "I don't want to see you get hurt. This school, these rich kids, they don't see what I see. They don't see how special you are."

"Then why should I care what they think?"

"Because they have the power, mija. They're the ones who decide who belongs."

I turned and went upstairs, closing my door. I fell on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

"You're not trash, Olivia." Willard's voice still echoing in my head.

My phone buzzed. Instagram notification.

I didn't want to look. But I did anyway.

The anonymous account had posted again: a photo of a mansion, modern architecture, glass walls, infinity pool.

"This is where Willard Bryant lives. Old money, generational wealth. Meanwhile, Olivia Martinez lives in a one-room apartment above a laundromat. But sure, they're 'friends.'"

Comments were already flooding in:

[She's prob trying to gold dig lmaooo]

[Gold digger alert]

[He's just slumming it for fun]

[Rich boys always get bored of their charity cases]

I closed my phone, but my hands were shaking.

The gap between our worlds had never felt wider.

Was that anonymous account right? Was I just... his entertainment? A charity project?

But I remembered the way he looked at me in the studio. The way he said my art was brave. The light in his eyes when he talked about physics and creativity merging.

That didn't feel like pity.

It felt like... something else.

Something I wasn't ready to name yet.

I pulled my blanket over my head, but sleep wouldn't come. Outside, the city was waking up—car horns, distant sirens, the rumble of garbage trucks.

My phone buzzed again under my pillow.

I should've turned it off.

But I couldn't help myself.

A new message. Unknown number.

[Tomorrow night. Same time. Bring your courage.]

No signature. But I knew exactly who it was from.

Despite everything—the exhaustion, the fear, the widening gulf between our worlds—I felt something warm unfold in my chest.

Hope.

Maybe even something more dangerous than that.

The next night, I showed up at the art studio door right on time. Willard was already there, holding coffees and donuts.

"You came," he said, relief flooding his voice.

That night, we didn't talk about the Instagram hate comments, didn't talk about his mansion, didn't talk about anything uncomfortable. We just worked. He helped me calculate the mechanical structure, I taught him how to blend perfect gradients.

Every night after that was the same—2 AM, art studio, just the two of us.

A week passed. Tonight, I stood in front of the kinetic sculpture, held my breath, and flipped the switch. The rotating parts started spinning, LED lights casting shifting patterns of light and shadow as the metal pieces moved. I stared at it for three seconds, then let out a scream.

"It works! Willard, it actually works!"

I turned around, and without thinking, threw my arms around him.

Willard's body went rigid instantly. I could feel his heartbeat racing, as fast as mine. My face was buried against his chest, smelling the mix of machine oil and some faint cologne on his clothes.

Three seconds.

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

The hug lasted way too long.

I jerked back, my face burning. "Sorry. I was just—so excited."

Willard looked down at his hands, his Adam's apple bobbing. "It's fine." His voice came out rough. "You should be excited. This piece... it's really amazing."

Something shifted in the air between us.