Chapter 6

I turned to pack up my tools, trying to hide my burning cheeks.

Willard crouched down to help me gather the scattered parts. His notebook slid out of his backpack and hit the ground with a thud.

"I got it." I bent down to pick it up.

The notebook fell open.

I glanced down instinctively, then froze.

These weren't ordinary class notes. The entire page was filled with exquisite street art designs—bold lines, intricate patterns, powerful compositions. Some even had color annotations and notes about spray paint brands.

"Wait." My fingers traced over one of the designs, my voice trembling. "I've seen this."

Willard reached out quickly to snatch the notebook back, but I'd already flipped to the next page.

"On a wall near the subway station." I looked up at him, eyes wide. "And this one, on an abandoned warehouse in South Boston. The one The Boston Globe photographed."

Willard's face changed. "You shouldn't be looking at that."

His tone was urgent, laced with panic I'd never heard before.

But I couldn't stop. Fragments of memory started piecing together—those stunning murals I'd seen around the city, the mysterious street artist our art teacher had mentioned, the photos going viral on social media.

"You're Phantom."

Not a question. A statement.

"The graffiti artist everyone's talking about. Oh my God, Willard."

Willard stood up, stuffing the notebook back into his backpack. His movements were tense, like an animal about to bolt.

"Don't tell anyone."

"Why—"

"Because!" He cut me off, his voice suddenly rising. "If my parents find out, they'll kill me. If the school finds out, I'll be expelled. If MIT finds out..."

He paused, taking a deep breath.

"My acceptance will be revoked. Everything I've spent seventeen years building, gone."

I stared at him. I'd never seen Willard lose control before. The physics prodigy who was always calm, always in command, right then looked like he was about to fall apart.

"Graffiti is illegal." His voice dropped but grew tighter. "I've been doing it since I was fourteen. Every time I go out, I could get arrested. But it's the only time I feel... free."

He turned away from me, hands braced against the table, shoulders rigid.

The silence stretched for ten seconds.

Then I said: "Show me."

Willard turned his head, expression confused. "What?"

"Show me your world." I took a step closer. "Take me with you."

"You don't understand—"

"I do understand." I cut him off. "I understand what it feels like to be trapped. To live in other people's expectations. So show me. Let me see the real Willard."

He stared at me, his eyes too complex to read.

Finally, he nodded.

Five minutes later, I was following Willard through a window that should have been locked, stepping onto a rusty fire escape, and finally climbing onto the rooftop platform.

The wind on the school roof was strong.

The Boston skyline spread out beneath our feet. Scattered lights dotted the darkness like stars, the Charles River in the distance glinted silver under moonlight.

"See that warehouse?" Willard pointed to a building in the distance. "I did a forty-foot mural there last summer. Took three nights."

I squinted in that direction, barely making out the massive pattern on the wall.

"You could have been arrested."

"Almost was. One night cops drove by, I hid behind a dumpster for two hours."

As he said this, there was actually a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

I turned to look at him. "Why do you do it?"

Willard was silent for a long time. So long that I thought he wouldn't answer.

Then he spoke, his voice so soft it was almost carried away by the wind.

"Because on the streets, nobody cares if you're rich or poor, smart or dumb. They only care if your art is real."

He turned to me, something raw and vulnerable in his eyes.

"And it's the first time in my life I don't have to be perfect. I can just... be myself."

My heart clenched.

A strong gust blew past, and I shivered from the cold.

Willard noticed, pulling off his hoodie without hesitation and handing it to me.

"You'll freeze." I tried to refuse.

"I'm used to it." He pushed the clothes into my arms. "I spend hours outside painting. I've painted in five-below weather."

I put on his hoodie. The oversized sweatshirt enveloped me, still carrying his warmth. I caught the mixed scents—the chemical smell of spray paint, some kind of woody cologne, and Willard's own distinct smell.

My face flushed again.

Willard looked at me, his gaze lingering longer than usual.

"Olivia, can I ask you something?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"Why do you care what they think?" He took a step forward. "Mia, Mrs. Peterson, all of them. You're more talented than any of them."

I smiled bitterly. "Because when everyone keeps telling you you're not good enough, eventually you start to believe it."

The moment the words left my mouth, Willard suddenly moved closer.

Very close.

His hand lifted, fingers almost touching my cheek, but stopped at the last second. Suspended in mid-air, trembling slightly.

"You are good enough." His voice was low, charged with intense emotion. "You're more than good enough. You're fucking brilliant."

I could feel his breath.

Could see myself reflected in his pupils.

Could hear my heartbeat racing like it was about to explode.

I stood on my toes.

Just as our lips were about to touch—

A shrill phone ringtone pierced the air.

Willard jerked back like he'd been electrocuted. He pulled out his phone, and when he saw the caller ID, his face went white instantly.

"Yes, Dad?" He answered, his voice immediately becoming compliant and distant.

The voice on the other end was loud enough that I could hear it clearly from ten feet away.

"Where are you?! It's four in the morning! You better not be doing that street trash art again!"

Willard's jaw tightened. "I'm studying. At school. Physics project is due Monday."

"You better be. MIT is watching you. One mistake, just one mistake, and everything we've worked for—"

Willard hung up.

He stood there, phone still in his hand, his entire body rigid as a statue.

I walked over, slowly sitting down beside him.

Five seconds later, Willard sat down too.

He buried his head in his hands.

"I'm so tired."

His voice nearly broke.

Something in my chest broke.

"I'm tired of being perfect. Tired of pretending I don't care about art. Tired of living two lives." His voice trembled. "Sometimes I feel like I'm splitting apart. During the day I'm the Willard they want, at night I'm the real me. But which one is actually me?"

I took his hand.

It was ice-cold, trembling.

"Sometimes I wish I could just run away." He lifted his head, eyes rimmed red. "Drop everything and just... create. Not caring about the Ivy League, not caring about my parents' expectations, not caring about perfect grades. Just art. Just freedom."

"Why don't you?"

Willard smiled bitterly. "Because I'm a coward. Because disappointing my parents is more terrifying than losing myself."

"You're not a coward." I turned to him, gripping his hand tightly. "You're brave. You create art in secret even though you know the risks. You helped me when you didn't have to. You stood up to Mia when no one else dared. That's brave."

Willard looked at me, something in his eyes I'd never seen before.

"You make me want to be braver."

This time, there was no phone call to interrupt.

He kissed me.