Chapter Thirty Eight

Buttoning the cuff of his sleeve, Chris strolled toward his studio. He halted at the doorway when he spotted Isa.

She stood in front of a canvas, a cloth in one hand, an apron tied around her waist. Clearly, she had been cleaning, but now she was still—arms crossed, brows furrowed, eyes squinting at a painting. She looked completely absorbed, lost in thought.

Chris tilted his head. She hadn’t noticed him standing there. He crossed his arms and stepped inside. Still, she didn’t flinch or turn.

What’s got her so captivated? he wondered.

He moved closer and raised a brow. It was an old painting—one he’d abandoned long ago. He barely remembered brushing it into existence, the strokes born from a trance he never understood. It was just a chaos of colour, with what looked like a vague head struggling to emerge from behind the hues.

Chris touched his chin and squinted, trying to see it through her eyes. What did she see in this mess?

After a few seconds of silence, he threw his head back and asked, “What’s so interesting about this painting?”

Isa gasped and stumbled forward, startled. Chris lunged forward and caught her by the waist before she could knock over the easel. Her body stiffened in his grip. He quickly steadied her, then released his hands and cleared his throat. The room suddenly felt too warm. He fanned his shirt and exhaled.

Isa bent down, picked up the cloth, and bowed. “G-Good morning, sir,” she stuttered, eyes darting away.

“Are you alright?” Chris asked, scanning her for injuries. His gaze fell to her bare feet, curling in discomfort. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

She blinked, frozen. Then she forced a smile and nodded. “Yes. I’m good. Just… cleaning,” she muttered, not meeting his gaze.

She turned to the supply shelf, gripping the cloth tightly. But as she moved to step away, Chris spoke again.

“Miss Smith,” he called, gesturing at the painting. “What’s so fascinating about it?”

Isa turned slowly, scratching her neck. Her gaze paused on Chris. Her brows lifted slightly—as if seeing him anew. Not cold or perfect in a suit, but simply… curious.

Silence stretched between them as her eyes trailed his damp hair sticking to his forehead, the loosened collar of his shirt, the rolled-up sleeves.

Chris noticed the pause and frowned. When their eyes met, she snapped her gaze away.

“Oh,” she laughed awkwardly, turning to the painting. She pointed at it several times with a sheepish smile. “This? I… I just love it.”

Chris nodded slowly, arms folding again. He noticed her feet still curled and tense. She’s not comfortable with me yet. He sighed. Should I let her go?

Isa glanced at him, and their eyes met. They both looked away.

Chris inhaled deeply. His heart raced. Did she catch me staring?

She was scratching her neck again, hands clutching the cloth like a lifeline. He cleared his throat to break the tension.

“You say you love the painting,” he said, louder than intended. “But you were staring at it like it meant something. What is it you see?”

“Um…” Isa scratched her neck again. “It just… It speaks to me. I know that sounds silly.”

Chris raised a brow. “Go on. What does it say?”

“The head coming out of the colours,” she said, pointing. “It feels like a man caged in his own world.”

Chris snapped his head toward her. His eyes widened. She instinctively stepped back. He turned to the painting again, rubbing his brow.

A man caged in his own world.

His chest tightened. He shut his eyes against the sudden surge of pain. Faces flickered in his mind—the lost, the haunting, the wanted. Nolan, crying in the park. The urge to hold him clashing with the fear that paralyzed him.

He glanced at Isa, then looked away. Why do her words hit so hard? Is she talking to me?

“I see someone who wants something badly,” Isa said softly, eyes distant. “His head is pushing through, but the brushstrokes are like bars keeping him back.”

Chris frowned. Her voice trembled. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

Is she talking about herself too?

He almost reached out to touch her shoulder but curled his fingers into his palm instead. Her words echoed in his mind. A man caged in his own world.

“Why?” Chris’s voice came out low and tight. “Why do you feel that way?”

Isa’s lips curved into a bitter smile. She stared at the painting as if she wasn’t really seeing it.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I wonder if everything I want is just a childish fantasy.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

“I don’t know why I’m getting emotional,” she murmured, fiddling with the cloth. A dry laugh escaped her lips. “I must be losing it. I’m sorry. I think I’m selfish too. I promised to work hard for my family, but all I think about is myself.”

She waved her hands. “Forget it, sir. I’m just talking nonsense.”

As she turned to leave, Chris grabbed her wrist—firm, but gentle. She flinched and froze, eyes wide as she stared at his hand.

“Don’t,” he muttered. “Don’t do that.”

When her eyes met his, he saw it—the same look he once wore.

“It’s dangerous,” he said, voice shaky. His soul trembled beneath his gaze.

Stacy’s words echoed in his mind: Don’t, don’t do it.

Tears welled in his eyes. Have I been living like this too long? He realized now—he hadn’t just carried guilt. He had built a life around self-hate.

He remembered the envy in his chest when he saw loving families, close friends, beauty he couldn’t touch. He had shut out the world to protect himself, but all he did was drown.

That boy’s words... “We can’t control what life throws at us, but we can control how we react.”

Can I even be saved? Find my way back?

He looked at Isa. She’s still on the edge. But if she keeps carrying that blame, she might fall.

His hand trembled on her shoulder as he imagined her crumbling under her pain.

“We can’t control life sometimes, Miss Smith. It’s not your fault to want something for yourself—to dream. You’re not selfish or childish.” He paused, his stomach twisting with unease. “You just have a dream. And you still have a chance to chase it, if you allow yourself to see the real you… not someone else’s reflection.”

Chris let go. A warning bell echoed louder than before—no longer fear, but something deeper.

It wasn’t just fear any more—it was part of him. Talking to people made his heart race wildly, like prey sensing a predator.

I can’t do this any more.

He turned back to the painting, his back to Isa. Shoving his trembling hands into his pockets, he stood rigidly as his eyes stung with unshed tears.

“Get—” The word caught in his throat. He shut his eyes, swallowing hard.

How could I just tell her to get lost and expect her to believe anything I say after that?

But the truth was becoming clearer now.

It was just his mind that wanted her near. His body—the very core of him—was rejecting the idea. He couldn’t get close. Not to anyone. Not even a pet.

And that’s why... she mustn’t become like him.

“Just—” Chris choked out the word, voice raw. “Just be yourself… for yourself. That way,” he paused, drawing a shaky breath, “you’ll learn to love and care for the world around you—in your own way, with your own strength.”

A muffled sob behind him. Footsteps. Then silence.

Chris exhaled, the room quiet. But his heart felt lighter—like one chain had fallen off.

He remembered something his mother once told him at the dining table:

“You can love people in many ways, even from a distance. The most powerful is with your words. Words can bind or free. Speak coldly, and you cast a dark spell. Speak gently—and sincerely—and you cast a white one. You bond, but you also set them free.”

A bittersweet smile curved his lips. When did I forget that?

He pressed a hand to his brow. How many have I wounded with my words?

Then he looked at the painting. Not today. Today, I helped someone.

Maybe this was the beginning of something new.

Chris rubbed the dust from the painting.

“A man caged in his world...”

This painting… it had helped him see the world differently—and maybe Isa too. There had to be others out there who needed a message like this. A silent reminder that they weren’t alone.

He blew gently on the canvas. Then he paused, a familiar line echoing in his mind:

“If you allow yourself to see the real you, and not someone else’s reflection…”

Chris blinked, then let out a dry laugh.

“Did I really say that?” he smirked. Then an image flashed in his mind—a schoolgirl standing before a mirror, her tear-filled eyes fixated not on herself, but on the reflection of her friends laughing behind her.

Chris rested his hands on his waist, a quiet smile forming.

Inspiration had found him—just when he least expected it.

Author’s Note

Thank you for reading this chapter.

Sometimes, the most powerful change starts with a whisper… or a painting.

Until the next chapter❤️🥰