I died consumed by guilt. The archangel gave me a chance to be reborn, to right a single wrong: to return her destined love to my sister.
I watched her discuss art with him in a rehearsed, lifeless tone. I listened to her complain in the dead of night, "What's the point of these boring charity projects?" I buried the part of me that had connected with his soul in that coffee shop.
Until he gazed at my painting of a wandering girl and asked softly,
"Why refuse to collaborate? Your brushstrokes hide a loneliness even I have never voiced."
That’s when I realized—
What he was searching for was never a title or status, but a soul that resonated with his own.

Screw the Script! I'm Done Pretending.

"You... how are you here?" My voice trembled; I instinctively wanted to retreat.
"We need to talk." He straightened up, his voice quiet yet carrying an unrefusable firmness, and a poorly concealed exhaustion. "I checked the list of exhibiting artists and their contact information. There are some th...

Chapter 11