Chapter 4 - Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Clara cradled a chipped porcelain mug of chamomile tea, its warmth seeping into her palms as she perched at the small kitchen table. The clock ticked obstinately past midnight. The apartment was quiet except for the distant wail of a siren and the soft hiss of the radiator. The golden brew in her cup caught the lamplight, shimmering like liquid sunrise between her fingertips.

She inhaled the scent of honey and apple, trying to ground herself. Sleep was refusing to come. Instead, her mind replayed the day: the cavalcade of compliments from well-dressed benefactors, colliding headlong with one stinging remark. Of all those flattery-filled hours, only Mark's critique had lodged itself under her skin like a thorn.

For instance, at a luncheon earlier, a charity director had said, "Clara, your warmth makes this table come alive." Clara had smiled and quipped, "Well, I must be radioactive today." The group had laughed politely, but now that laughter felt hollow. Even Aunt Midge's enthusiastic praise—You light up every room—seemed a bit insincere when the room was empty. Those words had floated around her like balloons—pretty until they floated away or popped. Now the single sentence Mark had spoken was the only one that echoed clearly.

Mark had said it dryly, his voice crisp as fine print: "Compliments nowadays all come with small print, you know." His eyebrow had arched over that line like a judge offering a verdict, and Clara felt her stomach twist at the memory.

Clara set her mug down with a clink and gave herself a self-deprecating standing ovation. Oh, bravo, Clara. You got criticized and now you're performing stand-up in a teacup. The kitchen light flickered in response as if nodding its own applause.

"Compliments are like confetti," she mused, voice soft. "Beautiful until you step on them and slip." She blinked back a tear and swiped it away. Her mind darted back to a gala earlier that night, where a socialite in a statement necklace had squealed, "Clara, darling, your generosity blinds me!" Clara had laughed and quipped, I should hand out sunglasses next time. The gesture had earned her another smile, but Clara remembered how empty it felt afterward.

Another memory sprang to mind: earlier at dinner, a caterer had approached with a tray of hors d'oeuvres and said, "You really light up every event you attend." Clara had tilted her head and responded, I try, but it's all these chandeliers helping out. The man had chuckled, but Clara knew her joke was just a reflex, not a truth. Now the words spun around her, no longer comforting.

A shiver ran through her despite the tea's warmth. "Here's a shocker," Clara muttered to the room. "Even a public figure has feelings." The moon hung a silent crescent in the window, and Clara imagined it leaning in to hear her. A hush settled over the city in that moment, as if the world itself held its breath alongside her.

She stood and padded to the stove, rinsing her mug under warm water. The steam curled into the shape of a tiny ghost with its arms raised in surprise, and Clara half-expected it to chuckle. Instead, it drifted into the vents.

Returning to the table, Clara's gaze fell on an old photograph she kept propped against the counter: her ten-year-old self, painted like a clown, mid-laugh with a red balloon. She picked up the faded photo and traced the child's joyful face. "Once, a compliment just made me want to smile," she whispered. Placing the photo back down, she exhaled slowly. "Now I just sign autographs," she added with a bitter smile.

Clara yawned, exhaustion finally catching up to her. She thumbed through her phone's blank drafts one more time. Maybe I should tell him, she thought as her finger hovered over the screen. Explain how this feels. But as quickly as the idea came, she shooed it away. Not tonight.

She kicked off her slippers and slid beneath the crisp white sheets. The chaotic buzz of her thoughts started to fade. The neon sign from the street cast a soft, rose-pink glow across her ceiling as Clara lay back. If compliments are freebies, she thought wearily, maybe it's time I bid on something real. Those words echoed softly in her mind as sleep finally claimed her.

Mark sat behind his polished mahogany desk, eyeing the glow of the computer screen as though it might argue back. The room was quiet but for the steady hum of the air conditioner and the distant sirens of Manhattan nightlife. A half-empty mug of coffee, long since gone cold, stood forgotten under the green desk lamp's cone of light. Piles of law books and case files towered around him, silent witnesses to his indecision.

On the screen flickered an open email addressed to Clara. For the past half hour Mark had been staring at that blinking cursor, wrestling with himself. In his head, he framed the problem in black-and-white legal terms: should he send this message and enter all his half-baked apologies into evidence, or let it sit in draft forever?

He tapped a finger against the desk. Objection: preoccupied with risk, he mumbled. Mark carefully weighed the evidence on his conscience. A persuasive argument: Clara had every right to be upset. The opposing argument: ignoring her silence felt like contempt. Like a courtroom exercise, pros and cons filed themselves in his brain, lining up on opposing sides of an imaginary scale of justice.

He tried typing again. "Dear Clara—" he began. Paused. Your Honor, I ask leave to withdraw. He erased the greeting. What if "Dear" sounded too familiar? He typed and deleted line after line, as if revising a deposition under fire. His mind started dictating: Clara, I realize I owe you an explanation—but his finger smashed backspace before the cursor blinked past "Dear Clara."

Mark leaned back and closed his eyes, smudging his work-tired face in his hands. On the wall, a copy of Blackstone's commentaries glared at him silently. He drew a shaky breath and opened a new tab in his browser. A news feed showed Clara's latest appearance, smiling and gracious as usual. I look even more of an ass for ruining that moment, he thought, heart sinking.

He lit a stick of chamomile incense from his desk drawer and watched the smoke spiral upward. For the first time he felt the weight of the night press in on him. The office, so familiar a half-hour ago, now felt oddly still and empty—like a courthouse hallway at midnight with its last case wrapped up. He closed his eyes, listening to the hiss of incense and distant city.

Now, Mark wrote a different kind of note on a Post-it: Apologize. No fan mail. He sighed. With a decisive movement he closed the laptop. The email was still unsent on the screen, its cursor blinking like an impatient jury. Mark straightened, loosening his tie. The clock on the wall read 8:15 p.m. The gala was starting in less than an hour. He stood, smoothing down the front of his shirt.

"No e-mail," he declared to the empty office. "I'll speak to her in person." It felt like a verdict laid upon his shoulders. Mark picked up his black wool coat from the back of the chair and headed for the door, leaving that draft behind him.

Stepping out into the evening air of midtown Manhattan, he inhaled a cool breeze. The lights of the city flickered on as the sun set, and Mark knew exactly where he needed to go: face the music in person.

The red carpet unfurled outside the Grand Regency Ballroom in a blaze of scarlet as Mark slipped into the gala, a black jacket over his suit fitting snug against his shoulders. Around him, the city's elite gathered: men in tuxedos and women in dazzling gowns, heels tapping like a nervous metronome on marble floors. Press flashes punctuated the night, pop and crackles of cameras like fireworks.

Mark paused at the entrance, taking it in. Strings of crystal chandeliers hung overhead, reflecting dollar bills worth of diamonds that waltzed through the foyer. Champagne corks popped in distant corners, and the scent of expensive perfume blended with roast chestnuts from a nearby hors d'oeuvres station. It was an altogether opulent scene, and he felt like an interloper caught in a place where money and glamour had written the guest list.

Then he saw Clara.

There she was, under the bright glint of the flashbulbs, swarmed by fans and reporters like a small island of sunlight in a murky sea. She wore a gown of midnight-blue silk that hugged her form, the hem catching light as she leaned forward to sign an autograph or laugh at a joke. A cascade of emeralds around her neck glittered with every tilt of her chin. The world around Clara—glittering cameras, prying microphones, adoring sighs—seemed to orbit her like static electricity around a charged particle. To Mark, she looked different. This Clara was like a deity on parade, and he couldn't tear his eyes off the spectacle.

He told himself to look away. It's just business, he muttered. But his feet glued themselves to the carpet. The first time he'd seen Clara was in ordinary lighting and clothes; this was different. Here, she commanded the room like the star of a film, and he had forgotten his own lines.

Suddenly, a teenaged girl crashed through the throng, nearly tackling Clara. The girl had a pair of glossy playbills under her arm, desperate to get them signed. Clara laughed and steadied her, patting her hand. The girl's cheeks burned pink as Clara retrieved the playbills and leaned down to write. Mark only caught a glimpse of her handwriting before the star was again swarmed. The words were meant for a stranger, but he wished at that moment he could read them.

He could hear her voice even from a distance. When she spoke, it was like warm sunlight on a fresh morning—cheerful and honest. Even as fans clamored and lights flashed, Clara's face remained gentle, her smile just big enough. Mark felt a reluctant awe: she was nothing like the person his harsh words had drawn in his mind just hours ago.

Across the din, he observed the patrons: Patrician ladies in fur stoles squealed like schoolgirls, and suited investors were pinching proud smiles onto their faces. The whole scene felt like a circus, and Clara was its ringmaster—if a ringmaster could ever be so effortlessly warm. The juxtaposition made Mark smirk. Only Clara could address an adoring crowd and make it feel like a family reunion.

He scanned the throng, hoping he might find an opening to approach. But people at these events often seemed to materialize out of thin air like hobnail boots in wet mud—firmly rooted. Around him, a senator's aide flashed him a bored look; Mark was clearly out of place with his untucked shirt and rumpled tie. Where am I? he joked internally, feeling conspicuously ordinary.

Then, as if the party sensed his despair, the lights dimmed and a hush began to fall. A horn player on the balcony wound down a jazzy tune. The guests began to drift toward the main ballroom. The starlet beside Mark gave a small gasp. "The show's about to start."

Clara was swept along by the tide of bodies. She gave one last wave at the cameras and vanished into the throng before he could gesture or call out.

Mark's heart thumped in his chest. He smoothed down his tie again and took a breath. Well, he thought, that was like watching live fireworks—I forgot my sparkler. He squared his shoulders. The gala would have to do. It was time to leave the safety of the red carpet and step into the hall.

Inside the ballroom, the lights softened into amber as champagne glasses clinked on velvet-draped tables. Clara stood by a tall cocktail table with two very different admirers: a bright-eyed teenage girl clutching a framed photograph and an elderly gentleman in a velvet smoking jacket, waiting politely. The girl bounced eagerly on the balls of her feet, a cluster of Sharpie markers in hand.

"Ms. Addison!" the girl squealed. "Could I please have your autograph? You looked amazing tonight!"

Clara smiled warmly. "Of course," she said. "What's your name, sweetie?"

"Emily," the girl replied shyly.

"Alright, Emily," Clara said, taking the Sharpie. The room's low chatter dimmed around her as she focused on Emily's name. The teen's cheeks were pinched with excitement, and in her eyes Clara saw her own 13-year-old self, heart aflutter at just meeting someone she admired.

Taking a deep breath, Clara signed the photo with a flourish: "For Emily, from the girl you think you know." She handed it over with an extra warmth in her smile.

The girl's grin stretched ear-to-ear. "That is so cool! What does that mean?" she giggled, as if Clara had whispered a secret joke just between them.

Clara winked. "It means sometimes there's more to the story," she said softly. She ruffled Emily's hair. "Stay curious, okay?"

"Always!" Emily answered, tucking the photograph into her backpack. After a quick hug, Emily scampered off, calling back, "You're the best, Ms. Addison!"

Clara watched her go, that funny autograph phrase hanging in the air like confetti. No one ever asked her about its meaning before. They've only just begun, Clara thought quietly.

Before the next guest stepped up, the elderly man stepped forward. He held out a small framed watercolor of New York City at sunrise, his own name scribbled in the corner. "I wasn't going to bother you," he said with a timid smile, "but I just wanted to say your speech tonight—well, it was something. Please accept this. I painted it last month."

Clara's eyes widened as she examined the painting; the colors glimmered even under the soft lights. "This is beautiful," she said. "Thank you so much."

The man shrugged modestly. "Just keep painting yourself, Ms. Addison. You have a way of adding color to people's lives."

She laughed, taking the painting. "I'll hold onto it," Clara promised. "It will remind me of tonight." He nodded and slipped away, leaving Clara with a bittersweet tug at her heart.

Pocketing the Sharpie and tucking the watercolor into her clutch, Clara scanned the grand hall. The chandelier overhead winked at her like knowing eyes. Around her, the gala continued its whirl—laughs, clinks, and the slow jazz piano on the mezzanine—but Clara felt oddly removed, the distant eye of a storm. As guests danced and mingled, she took a moment to let her shoulders relax.

Finally, Clara remembered why she'd come: to find a quiet corner or a coat room to catch her breath. She spotted the leather-backed door at the side labeled "Coat Room." The idea of stepping into solitude felt unexpectedly welcome. Gathering up her belongings, she stepped away from the crowd. The phrase she had written for Emily still echoed in her mind—now more question than quip. "Who really knows me?" she wondered as she headed toward the coat room, the gala lights blurring behind her.

Clara pushed open the heavy door to the coat room and stepped inside. The air was surprisingly cool and quiet. Under a row of black fur coats, Mark was standing with his back to her, unzipping a dark wool coat. He turned, startled.

"Mark?" Clara blurted. Her voice echoed softly off the ivory walls.

Mark offered an awkward smile and palmed the back of his neck. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sneak up on you."

He helped himself to a chair that squeaked as he sat. The space was small—plush carpeted floor, rows of winter coats on hooks, a single bench in the center. A lone crystal sconce threw just enough light onto their faces. Clara realized how intimate the setting was: a makeshift stage for a conversation.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, faintly nervous. Her coat was halfway draped over one arm.

"I thought you might be here," Mark admitted, sliding his chair a bit closer. "I was hoping to talk without the flashbulbs."

Clara almost smiled at that. "Originally I was supposed to be handling intake here," he continued, "but frankly, that feels irrelevant now. There's no protocol in a coat closet."

She tilted her head. "No protocol, huh?"

He looked down, then back up at her face in the dim light. "Yeah. I mean, I… I heard how you signed that girl's photo."

Clara stiffened. "You did?"

"I did." Mark ran a hand through his hair. "She told me. I didn't need to guess, really. When I heard 'the girl you think you know', I… I got it."

Clara felt heat flood her cheeks. She had to clear her throat. "You know," she said quietly, "I've been signing autographs for years. No one ever asked me what it meant before."

Mark's lips softened. "Good tagline," he muttered under his breath.

Clara sighed, leaning back on the wall. "It's just—everyone at these events looks at me one way." She brushed a fringe of hair behind her ear. "They see a celebrity. You know, lights, camera, gala?"

His gaze held hers, understanding. "And every article paints me another way," he added. "Usually with something about me being 'the hard-nosed attorney' or 'the unamused critic.'"

Clara gave a short laugh. "We both have nice marketing campaigns," she said, voice wry. "Well, you have mine, anyway."

Mark chuckled. "I read that editorial interview about you this morning. Fancy words, but not enough punctuation for how moved I was." His own humor made her smile. "They said you were a fixture in New York society. I thought I was one of the few who knew you were more than that."

Her eyes softened. "Everyone expects me to sparkle under this spotlight," Clara confessed. "And I do—most of the time. But it leaves me blind, too. They don't see the cracks." She tapped her lacquered nail lightly against her temple. "Would you believe that at ten I dreamed of being a painter, not signing glossy photos?"

Mark's brow lifted. "A painter," he repeated, genuinely surprised. "I would have said a lawyer or judge. Did you ever paint?"

She gave a half grin. "Late nights in college. Small watercolors of the city." She paused. "I abandoned it—fame doesn't leave much room for daydreams."

The closet's silence closed in for a moment. Then Mark spoke softly, "I see—people only see the costumes we wear. Clara Addison, social butterfly, all smiles—no one asks what the wings feel like. I see your signature world-famous grin, but I forgot even you get tired."

Clara's chest tightened. "It's interesting hearing you say that, of all people. I figured you spent nights rooting for us to fall flat."

He looked genuinely pained. "Nobody's winning if I make you feel small. I was cranky, I guess, impressed by your stage and afraid of my own."

They took a breath, letting it out together. Mark inched even closer, the bench creaking. "What about you, Clara," he said earnestly, "what have you been afraid of?"

She tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear and smiled wryly. "That people will finally see too much. That the suit will slip."

He reached tentatively to brush a strand of hair from her face. "But people only see what we show them," Mark said. "We control the narrative… sometimes. You wrote 'the girl you think you know'—give me the girl I don't."

A warm silence fell. Clara's heart thumped. Slowly, she let Mark's hand rest. "How about this," she said, voice stronger, "no more roles. No curtain calls or rehearsals, okay? Let's just be us, even if that's messy."

Mark's eyes glistened faintly. "I promise," he said. "No costumes."

She placed a hand over his. The bench was cramped, but his fingers were warm around hers.

He stood, pulling off her other glove. "Deal?" he asked quietly.

"Deal," Clara echoed.

They shared a small smile. As Mark helped her into her coat, he gave her elbow a gentle squeeze. "Thank you," he whispered, not loud but clear.

"Thank me," Clara replied softly, "for finally showing me you."

His lips twitched. "I'll keep trying," he said.

They stepped out of the coat room together, shoulders brushing as they walked. The party hummed quietly outside like a distant dream.

Clara let herself relax for the first time that night. Finally, something felt earned. Finally, something I can't just be given.

Act 2

Chapter 12: Overzealous Admirer

Clara perched on a sticky vinyl barstool at The Gilded Lily, squinting through the neon haze as Emma snorted a laugh beside her. The disco ball overhead spun lazy rainbows across the peeling wallpaper, and a cover band blared a crunchy rock tune from the speakers. The air smelled of spilled beer, avocado salsa from the kitchen, and Emma's orange blossom perfume. Clara took it all in, wondering if glasses of margarita always burned her nose like this or if tonight was just especially dank.

She had insisted on a fun night out with Emma to blow off steam after the week's absurdities. Already, she felt a tiny euphoria bubble—rock music, girlfriends, and fluorescent lights always made her grin, even though tonight she'd tried on forty outfits before settling on an off-the-shoulder black dress that, no surprise, got a few appreciative looks from the bar staff. But as lucky as she usually considered herself—her friends joked about "pretty privilege"—tonight she hoped to blend into the scene.

Her hopes of blending in were dashed the moment Greg entered the bar.

He glided through the crowd like an embarrassed peacock, chest puffed out and eyes locked on her. Even from ten feet away Clara felt a current of attention shift like all the streetlights had momentarily swung towards her. Greg's eyes burned like a spotlight; he must have spotted her from outside, or maybe a pigeon of serendipity led him in.

"You look amazing, Clara," Greg declared as he slid onto the stool next to her without invitation. He beamed like he'd just discovered gold. In the dim light, his grin was absurdly wide, like he'd eaten something too sour. "I'm not saying the place isn't charming, but with you here, it's practically glowing."

Clara felt a flush creep up her neck. She stiffened, gently putting her hands on the bar. This is exactly how I wanted to spend my Friday night, she thought, drilling a look at the stage. The guitarist froze in mid-riff for a moment, as if the music itself wanted to eavesdrop. Not.

"Uh, thanks, Greg," she managed out loud, lifting an eyebrow. She wasn't rude to acquaintances, but something about the sound of her voice made Greg's grin only grow wider.

Greg didn't slow down. He leaned forward conspiratorially and in a low stage whisper said, "Seriously, Clara, you have no idea how lucky I am to have spotted you tonight. It's like the universe said, 'Go to the bar, Greg, she'll be there!'"

Clara's dry internal monologue kicked in. Universe? Please don't call in God—or Ryan Gosling—and definitely don't call in the paparazzi. She flashed a tight smile. "I'm… flattered, I guess. Emma and I were just catching up, right Emma?" Emma, who had become aware of Greg's arrival, gave a discreet thumbs-up.

"Oh, I know you guys!" Greg launched in before Clara could respond. He addressed Emma with the enthusiasm of a game show host. "Emma, you're absolutely radiant tonight!" He gave Emma a flamboyant wink. Emma blushed and cleared her throat, downing her drink with a practiced grace. "Oh, thanks, Greg," Emma said, playing along. "You too. It's been a while."

As Greg babbled compliments, Clara felt every word land on her like an unasked microphone in the face. "You're killing me." Her mental filters were on a low battery, and she let herself internally mock each phrase. "That's a great top. Absolutely stunning." She looked down at her matte black dress and wondered if tonight was the first time that particular hemline had discovered gravity.

Greg wasn't finished. He was determined to give her advice on everything: her perfume (he thought it smelled "invigorating, but maybe not too much for a Saturday night"), her drink (maybe she'd love a tequila sunrise – "It's so vibrant, like you, Clara!"), even how she should smile more with her teeth. Clara inwardly flinched at this last suggestion as if Greg had poked her with a straw.

The bar seemed to tighten around her, as if the crowd parted to give them more room. At the same instant, all the noises faded: the saxophone solo on the radio dimmed until it was merely a polite hum at the edge of her hearing, and the murmur of other patrons hushed to a quiet whisper behind Greg's sentences. Clara's vision narrowed in slo-mo focus on Greg, as if her head had become the lens and Greg was the only subject in focus.

It was that strange, Disney-like feeling she had sometimes: like she was a magnet and everyone's eyes and ears were glued to her by invisible thread. A fairy-tale curse, except the story was that all hands wanted to pinch her cheeks and all hearts were pounding for her.

At the start of a Greg monologue on how she needed to try meditation because "a woman like you needs to center her inner goddess," Clara nearly smiled at the absurdity. But keeping it together when someone is literally calling you a goddess is too much. She couldn't do it.

This could go on forever.

She slowly backed out of her stool. The vinyl squeaked in complaint. Emma shot her a sympathetic look. "Give me a second, okay?" Clara mouthed silently, hoping Greg would not take it for encouragement.

"No, no, don't," Clara said before he could say anything, sliding off the stool. Maybe I should pretend the bathroom is plumbing trouble and not go inside.

Greg opened his mouth, eyebrows raised, but before he could deny her departure, Clara gave a thankful, if somewhat guilty, grin at Emma, and turned on her heel. The cool air of the bar's hallway hit her like a lifesaver as she snaked past a couple of amused strangers on their way out. She felt suffocated in the tiny world Greg had constructed around her.

By the time she reached the bathroom door, Clara's heart was pounding just enough to remind her how alive she was. That's the funny thing about compliments in real life, she thought. They can boost you up for a moment, but when you're tired of being a magnet, they feel like weights on your shoulders.

Clara pushed open the stall door and flicked on the harsh fluorescent lights of the mirror-lined bathroom, ready to hide behind pastel graffiti.

Clara leaned against the cool porcelain sink and let out a slow breath. The fluorescent lights above gave her skin a jaundiced gleam, but compared to the hot spotlight Greg had put her in, it felt normal—just plain old Clara. She had survived that first encounter, but now the noise of the bar was a distant roar.

"Just a bathroom break," she told her reflection with a hollow smile. "No big deal."

Her reflection offered a sympathetic grin—then promptly blinked and gave her a cheeky wink. Clara startled. "Right. Supportive. Exactly what I need right now," she muttered under her breath.

She sniffed, trying not to sound anxious. Beads of water from the faucet dripped in a lazy rhythm on the counter. "At least this mirror knows who's got my back," Clara muttered aloud, finding herself momentarily amused that even her reflection would think someone was stalking her now.

In an attempt to calm down, Clara pulled her small leather-bound sketchbook from her bag. It was habit—just having something to doodle, to scratch out on paper the ridiculousness of the night. The sketchbook had soothed her nerves before, so why not now?

She sat on the closed toilet lid and flipped to a blank page. With quick strokes, Clara began to draw. In thick black pencil, she crafted a caricature of Greg: tall and lanky, with his blazer jacket comically flaring at the hips. Most obvious were the eyes: two huge, cartoonish hearts the size of saucers, gazing adoringly at nothing in particular. She even gave him a grin so broad it threatened to tip off his head. In the corner, she scribbled a tiny speech bubble: "I just adore you!"

Clara snorted softly at her own work. The cartoon Greg looked like he'd just won a lifetime supply of donuts. She flipped the page and studied it for a moment, then tore the sheet free. Flushing the doodle down the toilet (as any sane artist might do with evidence of torture) did not feel extreme; in fact, it felt liberating.

This brief break ended as her gaze drifted back to the mirror. It was no longer a pitiless tool. Tonight, in the flickering light, that glass acted like an old friend mocking the absurdity with her. The mirrored Clara tossed a mock grin, and then—Clara was certain—her reflection sighed.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm going to end up trapped in here, trying to listen to my own jokes on repeat, Clara thought. "Seriously, what am I going to do now?" she mumbled aloud.

"No, but seriously," she said to the reflection, taking a more earnest tone, "what if Mark was here? If someone were actually interested in me for me and not for this… circus act?"

The mirror remained quiet, but it felt like the reflected Clara was listening. The bathroom was empty except for the distant scrub of soapy hands at another sink and a muffled laugh from a couple of girls outside. Clara splashed water on her face, watching in the mirror as drops slid down her cheeks and evaporated at the edges. Not even a tear, she realized. Just damp makeup.

She gave her reflection a final, rueful smile and slipped the sketchbook back in her bag. Wiping her hands on her jeans, Clara took a deep breath. The ridiculous part of the night was over—for now. Whatever came next, she decided, she might as well face it with at least a sliver of humor.

Clara opened the bathroom door, stepping back into the dim hall of The Gilded Lily. The thumping music had returned in full force. She forced a grin: perfectly timed, as if nothing had happened.

Morning light slipped through the windows of the corner cafe where Clara sat, a latte in hand and yesterday's embarrassment still riding in her veins. The hush of the early hour made the clink of ceramic cups sound loud and soothing. Outside, the city was awake: car engines hummed, someone chatted on a phone while waiting at the crosswalk, and a pigeon strutted across the sidewalk ignoring the chaos. Clara half-ignored it all, focusing on the swirl of cinnamon on the foam of her latte.

She was just beginning to savor the quiet when a familiar voice boomed from the entrance. "Good morning, beautiful!"

Clara's heart lurched. She looked up. Sure enough, Greg stood at the glass door of the cafe, grinning and waving enthusiastically. In his other hand was a large bouquet of flowers — possibly meant to mimic a fiery sunrise — and a stuffed bunny wearing a tiny top hat and tie. To top it off, he carried a rectangular box that looked suspiciously like breakfast pastries.

Her latte nearly overflowed. Great, I didn't even finish my first compliment yet. She stabbed at the sugar packet on the table to give herself time to think. Greg entered as if on cue, setting the bouquet in Clara's lap and the bunny on the seat beside her, before brandishing the pastry box like a grand prize in a game show.

"I thought you might like a proper wake-up call," he announced. "Your day deserves the best start!"

Clara blinked at the bounty in her lap. It really was too much.

"I—I, Greg, this isn't necessary…" she stammered, trying to push the flowers away. But Greg leaned over and gently lifted the bouquet back into place, ignoring her hands as if they were a pesky fly he couldn't swat. He plopped a raspberry danish and a blueberry muffin on the table, beaming. "I got us breakfast! Just in case you were hungry."

Before Clara could muster a protest, something even stranger happened.

The barista, a young woman with green streaks in her hair, bounded over. With wide eyes she pointed at Clara. "First latte on the house," she chirped. "Free. I insist, it's my treat." She flashed a bright smile and turned back to the espresso machine, making an extra effort with the milk foam.

Clara muttered a thanks, feeling her cheeks warm with the unwelcome attention. Why is this happening? she thought. It was the magical realism of pretty privilege: no one else had this phenomenon. An older couple nearby smiled approvingly at her. A man at another table blushed and looked away when her eyes met his.

Greg didn't notice the barista's gesture. He was busy giving her what he took as undivided attention. "You didn't even glance at my note on the daisies!" he chortled, glancing at the half-wilted bouquet. He waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, please. You know I can't just send flowers by mail, Clara. That's for students and people who live in fairy tales. I'm here in person. Isn't that what matters?"

"I'm—fine, really," Clara lied softly, pushing the pastry plate a little closer to herself as a buffer. Inside, she felt like rolling her eyes, but all she could manage was a tired smile. Yep, completely fine.

Beyond the carousel of pandemonium, Clara noticed Mark in the corner. He sat at a small table near the window, dark-rimmed book propped open as if he were studying, but his eyes were locked on her. For once, her reflection in the window behind him was a quiet reminder that someone here was standing on solid ground while the circus swirled. Mark's steady, knowing smile made her breath soften.

He caught her gaze and gave a small wave. No flourish, no grand gesture—just a gentle acknowledgment. Clara felt a slice of warmth at the sight of his normalcy. With Mark, the world could still be still.

"That guy again, huh?" Mark's voice came from just behind Clara as if he'd materialized. She jumped slightly. Mark had appeared beside the table, leaning casually on the chair as he sipped his own coffee, unnoticed until then.

"You always pop up like this," she teased softly, a genuine smile spreading. Mark nodded toward Greg's latest display. "Looks like Mr. Grand Gesture has been busy."

Mark chuckled. "Has he ever been anything else?" His eyes twinkled with amusement. "Well, if I owe you a moral-support coffee for this, I'm on standby."

Clara scoffed. "I'm not sure another coffee can handle it. But thanks."

Mark just shrugged as if that settled it. Across the table, Greg was already retelling her his morning plans in energetic detail. Clara took a deep breath. Despite the craziness — despite Greg, despite the gifts, despite being inexplicably on a caffeine high five with fate — the fact that Mark was quietly there gave her a center of gravity back.

She caught a final glance in the cafe's glass: herself, safe between chaos and comfort. And for the first time that day, Clara felt genuinely okay.

The next afternoon, golden sunlight filtered through the limbs of an old oak tree in the park. Clara and Emma sat cross-legged on a burgundy picnic blanket, the city bustle melting around them. The grass smelled faintly of fresh-cut lawn and lingering rain, and somewhere a brass band played a distant marching tune.

Clara leaned back on her hands, staring up at the sky between rustling leaves. "You know, when you said 'own the diva,' I thought you were kidding," she said with a half grin.

Emma laughed, hands clasped behind her head. "Hey, you do you, right? But be yourself too. There's a line between being glam and being genuine, Clara. I mean, you can be dramatic if you want, but you might also try actually talking to Mark."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Mark? Serenade me? He'd probably be horrified if I mentioned seeing a movie with him." A soft smile touched her lips despite herself.

Emma tilted her head, sincerity threading through her tone. "Look, I'm just saying, maybe try real for once. Not like glitter bombs and gift baskets. Remember Sophia from art class? She used to swoon over these grand gestures… and then someone else stole the spotlight, just by being herself."

"What do you mean?" Clara prompted, squinting as she tried to recall.

Emma waved a dismissive hand. "I'm getting there. Okay, example: Sophia was crushin' on that guy, Dylan — Mr. Big Presents, remember? He once organized a flash mob of cheerleaders to propose at the campus fountain. It was incredible… but Sophia got swept away when another guy, Marcus, quietly started bringing her coffee and asking about her weird hobbies. No flash, just real talk. Eventually, Sophia started showing up only for coffee with Marcus, even when Dylan's fireworks hit the sky."

Clara remembered something flicker in the corner of her mind: Dylan on a riser with pompoms… "Oh, yeah, I remember that! Sophia's face when Dylan tripped on his own shoelace. And Marcus kept quietly saying he loved the cool vintage pins on her jacket."

Emma nodded. "Exactly. Grand gestures can impress, but they don't always mean a thing if the other person's just there for a show. Marcus, who didn't even do fireworks, ended up the one she liked more. Just because he was honest."

The late afternoon sun warmed Clara's cheeks as a breeze teased her hair. She laced her fingers together. "I get it, I think. You mean maybe I should talk to Mark directly? Just be normal?"

Emma grinned. "Be yourself. Crack your jokes under your breath. Let Mark see that Clara, not Clara the goddess."

Clara's voice softened. "I just… I really want Mark to notice me, Em. Like, for real notice me. Not the illusions, not the random fanfare."

Emma scooted closer. Putting an arm around Clara's shoulders, she squeezed. "I know. And you deserve it. You've got so much to offer — kindness, humor, creativity — and he'll see it. He'll see you. And if he doesn't, well, it's his loss."

Clara felt a lump in her throat at Emma's words. It was one thing to joke about grand gestures; it was another to hear her best friend declare that she deserved to be seen. She looked at Emma, really looked, and saw there the unwavering belief she herself was starting to feel. "Thanks, Em," she said quietly. "I needed to hear that."

Emma grinned and gave her a little wink. "Anytime. Now, how about we discuss what you should doodle next to Greg's name in your sketchbook?"

Clara chuckled, pushing her backpack aside. Emma's silliness was exactly the balance she needed. "Alright, let's hear it."

Clara still had Emma's words rolling around in her mind as they plotted hypothetical caricatures on that blanket, but behind the comedy, something deeper settled in her chest. For the first time all day, Clara felt a clear picture forming of what she truly wanted—and realized maybe, just maybe, being seen by Mark wasn't as impossible as it had felt.

Hours later, under the flickering neon sign of one of downtown's quieter bars, Clara found herself inching through a crowd towards Mark. The bar smelled of spilled beer, lime, and music so loud her knees even felt it. She spotted Mark at a corner high-top table, sipping a soda and reading an open book — as normal as he was most mornings. Tonight, the maze of people was just like before, but for a moment, she felt like she could disappear if she stepped back.

Clara opened her mouth to say hello; when she turned, Greg suddenly materialized in her path. His grin was a half-step lag behind what he must have overheard.

"Going somewhere, Princess? Or have you finally decided to grace me with some company?" Greg drawled, slipping one arm around her shoulders. Clara froze. She wiggled, stepping out of his reach, trying to keep her voice calm. "Actually, Greg, I was just going to say hi to a friend."

Greg laughed and squeezed her arm gently, pulling her back towards him. "Oh, sure. But I saw you looking at me, Clara. Maybe I should consider that a good omen!" He winked as if this were their private joke.

Clara's mouth went dry. She managed, "No, Greg—" but the bar's music took a crescendo-blare moment that masked her protest. The crowd's muffled laughter, oblivious to her panic, pressed around her.

Then from the corner of her eye, Mark sprang up. He had been watching. Without a word, Mark stepped up behind Greg at exactly the wrong angle for Greg.

"Whoa!" Greg yelped as Mark reached around, putting a friendly arm around Greg's waist. In an expertly choreographed move, Mark brushed his leg against Greg's, causing Greg's knees to buckle. With a dramatic slide, Greg lost his balance and crashed to the floor with his arms flailing and the bunny toppled.

The bar erupted in surprised laughter as Greg lay on the floor, wearing a grin of consternation. Clara's jaw dropped. Greg scrambled and huffed, not sounding hurt but quite embarrassed.

Mark turned to Clara, flashing his most innocent smile. "Oops. Good thing I've taken so many dance classes, or I'd never be this smooth," he joked quietly, holding out a hand to help her up.

Clara let him pull her up, still dazed. "I think I'll pass on your next dance lesson," she replied, though relief was flooding her chest. Greg, cheeks red, grumbled something about returning for his dignity.

"You okay?" Mark asked softly, eyes concerned. He tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, all rough edges disappeared in that gesture.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Clara breathed, finally able to laugh at the absurdity. "Thank you."

"Happy to help," Mark said, shrugging like it had been nothing. The sincerity in his tone sank in, and Clara felt tears prick her eyes with gratitude.

For a moment, the loud bar music and chatter fell away until all Clara could hear was Mark's voice and the solid click of glasses on the table. He gave her one of those looks — steady, warm, and entirely for her. "I saw him bothering you, so I just…" he trailed off, but the meaning was clear.

Clara's breath hitched as Mark's hand brushed hers. He wasn't looking at her the way everyone else had all night — not with hearts in their eyes or dollar signs in their heads — but with understanding. She realized he recognized what she must have been feeling: suffocated, overwhelmed. In contrast to the evening's spectacle, this was honest.

She took a slow step closer to Mark. The din of the bar returned, but she didn't mind. Something about the way Mark's gaze held hers made the row of flashing neon letters outside blur into insignificance.

"Clara," he said gently, as though her name itself deserved a quiet truth, "you know I'm here for you, right?"

Clara felt warmth rush to her cheeks, but it was a light that felt good, not like the spotlight she was used to. "I know," she said softly. "Thank you, Mark. For… everything."

Mark gave her hand a little squeeze. "Always."

And in that chaotic bar corner, Clara finally felt something steady settle in her chest. For once, being seen wasn't a curse or a hidden message; it was as simple as knowing she was okay as herself. A sure smile tugged at her lips as she whispered, "I feel seen by you."

His smile deepened, and she could swear, under the flashing sign, Mark's eyes agreed: Yes, I see you, Clara.

Chapter 13: Picture-Perfect Illusions

Clara lay propped against a pile of designer pillows in her sunlit bedroom, the morning light casting a warm glow across a neat sea of pastel blankets. With one hand, she scrolled through the endless, perfect-looking feed on her phone, each new photograph of herself carefully filtered and captioned. Every time a friend's emoji floated onto the screen or a "like" clicked in, a burst of animated confetti exploded around her bedside lamp, a tiny celebration of approval that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

In the digital glow, Clara saw a parade of images: her laughing at a bakery, manicured hands holding latte art, snapshots of her posing in sundresses in front of an Instagrammable wall of flowers. Each picture was gilded in perfect light and dazzling hues, the kind of moment friends double-tapped before flicking on to the next highlight reel. Comments full of emoji hearts and fire icons drifted below the pictures, some praising her newest #selflove selfie. Even as she observed this glittering slideshow, Clara felt only emptiness inside.

Clara turned her gaze from the phone to the full-length mirror leaning against the wall beside her bed. The face staring back at her was indeed very pretty: high cheekbones and green eyes that even the dawn light caught glinting like emeralds. But it was the same face she saw in the softly lit room, with dark circles faintly shadowing her eyes and a small crease between her brows where last night's worries had etched themselves. "Mirror, mirror on the wall," she thought dryly, "just another reminder that nothing real should have to pretend this hard." The words tasted bitter on her tongue as she examined herself beyond the glam.

Frustration simmered inside Clara as she tossed the phone aside and grabbed the small sketchbook she kept on her nightstand. In quick, clear strokes she started drawing a split-screen cartoon of herself: on one side, the Social Media Clara with a perfect smile, Instagram-ready hair, and a glittering crown hovering above her head; on the other side, the Real-Life Clara in rumpled sheets, eyebrows furrowed, and the faint frown of someone desperately wishing to be seen beyond the likes. As she sketched, she scribbled tiny captions under each Clara — "2.5K likes" above the first, and "no one to wake me up" above the second. A silent sigh escaped her lips as she finished the drawing.

She closed the sketchbook with a muted thud and stared out her window as a few stray confetti hearts from her phone's screen hung in midair, slowly dissolving into nothing. The promise of another perfect day shimmered on the glossy screen of her phone, but Clara's eyes saw only the dusty sidewalk below and a pale blue sky dotted with real clouds. She rubbed her thumb along the delicate paper of the sketchbook, heart thudding. For once, Clara felt something small and fierce stirring inside her: determination. With a quick snap, she cleared her notifications and swung her legs off the bed. Today, she would show up as she truly was.

Scene 2: Lunchtime Venting and Extravagance

Clara sat across from Emma at a sunny café table piled with warm pastries and pastel sugar packets. She sighed dramatically between bites of her avocado toast. "I swear, Em, every time I open Instagram, it's like scrolling through a movie trailer for someone else's life," she complained, flipping through a feed of flattering selfies she'd curated last night. Emma's eyebrows lifted as Clara voiced her frustrations. These lunch venting sessions were their weekday ritual now — the only time Clara really let her guard down and speak her mind.

Clara pointed at her screen. "It's just endless applause emojis and heart-eye reactions," she said dryly, "but in real life it feels like I'm talking to an empty room." Emma leaned back and sipped her iced tea. "Maybe the applause on Instagram is from people who only see the glitter, and the silence offline is from people who know the real you," she suggested gently. Clara smirked despite herself. Emma had a way of cutting to the truth that stung in the best way.

At that moment, a street musician strummed a ukulele at the edge of the patio. Clara thought nothing of it until a few floating heart emojis began drifting down around her. She looked up to see Greg striding into the café, grinning like he had a secret surprise. In his arms he carried a gigantic heart-shaped balloon, an iced coffee extravagantly topped with gold glitter and a single orchid, and behind him he wheeled a miniature dessert cart covered in cupcakes frosted with sparkles.

"Forgive the interruption," Greg announced grandly, spreading the balloon wide. "I couldn't let my beautiful princess face this Monday without a parade!" He beamed and set the glittering latte on the table in front of Clara. The cup itself seemed larger than life, its straw adorned with tiny silver stars. "You deserve some magic before yoga," he said, strumming the last note on his ukulele with a flourish.

Clara forced a laugh, feeling equal parts amused and mortified. The café patrons around them clapped softly and raised their coffee cups in salute, as if Greg's spectacle were part of the afternoon's entertainment. Emma huffed softly into her napkin and muttered under her breath, "Bring in the marching band next time, why don't you." Greg, oblivious to Emma's sarcasm, simply continued talking as if delivering a grand performance. When at last he finished, Clara exhaled.

Emma nudged Clara's foot under the table. "You know," Emma said quietly, raising her iced tea in a toast, "some women might dream of grand gestures like that, but I think you deserve something more… real." Clara smiled at Emma and felt a warmth creep into her chest. All the gold glitter in the world couldn't make her feel any richer than she did right then. She realized she had let herself become a sideshow in her own life — and maybe it was finally time to step out from under the spotlight.

Clara stepped into the afternoon sunlight, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face as she headed toward the yoga studio. She tucked her phone into her purse and took a deep breath, trying to leave the cupcake-and-balloons chaos behind. A block ahead, Mark was waiting by the door, leaning casually against a friendly brick wall. He looked up and grinned as Clara approached.

"Oh great, now I really wish I'd worn a runway dress," Clara quipped, rushing into his side hug.

Mark laughed and patted her arm. "I think life's too short to let a little attention scare us," he teased, eyebrows twinkling.

Clara rolled her eyes, bumping him playfully. "Easy for you to say, Mr. Normal," she said with a smirk.

As they walked together, something surreal happened. Without warning, a small crowd of pedestrians strolling by turned around and began to clap and cheer. An elderly man even stood up from a park bench to offer a slow, dignified applause. Nearby, a stray dog trotted over and barked enthusiastically as if urging them on. Clara gasped, caught off guard by the sudden fanfare. Mark raised an eyebrow with amusement at the unexpected greeting. "Nice grand entrance," he teased quietly. Clara put a hand over her heart, cheeks warming. Perfect, I'm on parade too, she teased herself silently.

Out of the applause strode Greg as if he were the master of ceremonies. He beamed at Clara, carrying a yoga mat that sparkled under the sun with a hundred tiny sequins. Across its center was scrawled Clara in glittering cursive, and at one corner a rhinestoned lotus flower glinted. "Tada!" Greg declared, dropping the mat triumphantly at Clara's feet.

Clara blinked, taken aback. "That is the most ridiculously extra yoga mat I've ever seen," she said, trying not to laugh out loud.

Mark simply grinned. "You could probably land a helicopter on that," he joked under his breath.

Greg's grin only widened. "Special delivery for my favorite yogi," he said grandly. Clara forced a polite smile and thanked him, already planning how to carefully remove every sequin before class.

They headed inside the studio, the magical applause fading like a forgotten dream. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting long patterns on the polished wood floor. The scent of lavender and sandalwood wafted from a diffuser in the corner, and soft instrumental music played in the background. Clara and Mark unrolled their mats side by side; his was a simple gray mat, hers a dazzling scarlet spotted with sequins. In the studio's long mirror, she saw herself framed next to Mark: messy hair under the studio lights, his relaxed shoulders, both of them smiling softly. For the first time in days, Clara felt something simple and real — grounded in the moment.

The class began with a gentle flow. Clara folded forward into a ragdoll, legs tingling, and felt Mark bend beside her. They moved in sync — downward dog into plank, cobra into child's pose. When they shifted into warrior three, Mark lost his balance and wobbled; instinctively, Clara reached out and steadied him with a light touch. He shot her a grateful grin. Later, as they lay in savasana at the end, Clara glanced to her left and found Mark's hand palm-up a few inches from hers on the mat. She gently squeezed his fingers. In that quiet hush, Clara felt lighter than she had in months — her world had narrowed to that peaceful moment.

After class, Clara and Mark strolled to a small café around the corner. They slid into a cozy booth and ordered hot tea to warm up. Clara pulled out her battered sketchbook and flipped to the page she had drawn during class. In faint pencil lines, Mark's calm eyes and crooked smile looked back at her. "I drew this today," she said softly, tracing a finger over the paper. "You were just so peaceful."

Mark glanced at the sketch and smiled. "I guess I practiced what I preached," he replied gently, squeezing her hand. Clara nodded. The memory of her emptiness was already fading at Mark's encouraging eyes.

She lifted her teacup toward him. "Thanks for being normal," she said quietly. "Thanks for just being you, without all the fireworks."

Mark took a sip and grinned. "Normal has its perks," he said, winking. "I prefer calm over confetti, too."

Clara laughed, warmth spreading in her chest. She felt brave enough to thank him without any filter.

Suddenly, the café door swung open behind them. Greg swaggered in, eyes locked on Clara.

He pushed a huge gym duffel bag onto the table with a thud. Clara tensed. Greg unzipped it to reveal gold-plated dumbbells, a monogrammed sweatband, and a sparkling gym membership card. "Behold: the deluxe gym experience package," he declared. "Personal trainer included!"

Customers at nearby tables glanced up, eyebrows raised at the stunt.

Mark simply nodded and stood to the side as Greg made his presentation. He remained polite and calm, even as Greg rattled on. Quietly, Mark refilled their teacups and stole a glance at Clara. She noticed something profound in that moment: Mark wasn't jealous or upset — just patient and kind. In contrast, Greg's show was loud but hollow.

Just then, a soft draft swept over the table. The pages of Clara's sketchbook fluttered and landed open on a portrait she had drawn of their afternoon: Clara and Mark leaving the studio together, his arm around her shoulder. Clara's stomach fluttered as she realized the universe itself seemed to be nudging her. Mark squeezed her hand gently under the table, and she felt a warmth spread through her chest.

When Greg finally gathered his shiny haul and left, the café felt calm again. In the gentle afternoon light, normal felt extraordinary.

They stepped back onto the sidewalk together, the sky now painted with streaks of orange and purple. The bustle of the street around them was soft and distant; Clara felt calm and safe. She slipped her arm through Mark's as they walked side by side.

"Honestly," Clara said with a playful grin, nudging his arm, "I think I might just nail that Warrior pose next week."

Mark chuckled. "I'll be your superhero standby, promise," he said, spreading his arms in mock superhero style.

Clara's heart skipped. The simplicity of the moment was all she needed.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the crumpled napkin she had absentmindedly tucked there. In quick strokes, she doodled the two of them: Clara in yoga pants with a big grin, Mark beside her with that easy expression. He peered over. "Hey, I see myself!" he teased.

Clara laughed. "Caught your best side," she replied.

Just then, a gentle evening breeze lifted the napkin from her hand. For a moment it fluttered in the air, then took shape, folding itself into a tiny paper heart. It drifted down softly and settled in Clara's palm.

Both of them stared in wonder. The napkin heart was simple — paper with their stick-figure doodles — but it felt like a promise.

"That's... kind of magical," Mark whispered, brushing his thumb over the folded edges.

Clara smiled and tucked the paper heart into her coat pocket. The night air was cool on her cheeks, and above them the first stars began to twinkle. In her heart she felt something light and happy settle there. The universe might still throw confetti her way, but Clara knew exactly who she wanted to share it with. Mark gave her hand a gentle squeeze. In that soft twilight, she felt wonderfully, beautifully at home.

Chapter 14: Mirror Reflections

Clara adjusted the strap of her paint-splattered messenger bag as she lingered by the art room hallway's trophy case, pretending not to be waiting for Mark. The midday sunlight spilled through the glass cases, turning old porcelain trophies into diamonds of dust motes. She glanced down at the sketchbook tucked under her arm, the worn cover adorned with doodles she had never shown anyone. Her reflection in the glass trophy case wobbled slightly, like a funhouse mirror run past its limit.

She spotted Mark's sandy hair at the end of the corridor and straightened up. Mark was a quiet presence, with earnest blue eyes that always seemed halfway to a question. As he approached, Clara's heart performed a juggling act in her chest. In the hallway's humid air she imagined him as a still life in motion – his gentle expression shifting like light across a canvas. She forced herself to smile casually and close her sketchbook, aware that any open page might spill her secrets.

"Hey, Clara!" Mark greeted. His voice held the morning pollen warmth. "Ready for the critique?"

"Hey, Mark," Clara replied with a half-smile. "Ready as I'll ever be." She tilted her head. "You didn't sleep either?" She noticed the brush of cerulean paint on his elbow and chuckled. "Painting in your sleep again?"

Mark rubbed at the dried paint and grinned. "A bit. But I finished the base tones on my portrait, at least." He pointed to the paint splatters on his jeans. "Your turn to impress, Picasso."

Clara scoffed lightly. "Hard to impress me with your daytime wardrobe," she teased, gesturing at the colorful splotches covering him. Under the locker lights, she realized her own outfit looked plain by comparison. A tiny smile crept on her lips: at least on paper, she could be anyone she wanted. Her sketchbook safely under her arm, she reminded herself that not even Mark knew how she saw the world.

Suddenly, Greg burst into the hallway as if summoned by her thoughts. He carried a bouquet of sunflowers and wildflowers nearly as large as his broad shoulders. He stopped in front of Clara with a dramatic flourish.

"Oh wow, Greg," Clara said, feigning surprise. "That's quite a bouquet."

Greg beamed and presented the flowers. "For you, oh mystical muse of paint and poetry! I gathered these to inspire your next masterpiece," he declared with a theatrical bow.

Clara's cheeks warmed with an odd mix of flattery and embarrassment. "Greg, seriously, I appreciate it, but—"

Mark looked from the bouquet to Clara, eyebrows raised. "Flowers, huh? Planning to charm the art teacher with those, or the entire poetry club?" he teased with a smile.

Greg caught Mark's eye and wagged a finger playfully. "See, Mark? Clara loves them. Pretty privilege and all that." He gave Clara an expectant grin, clearly waiting for her to blush.

Clara felt something pinch in her chest at the mention of "pretty privilege." It wasn't the first time she'd heard the joke—her friends teased that Greg's handsome face had unfair sway—but hearing it now, tossed across her like a booby trap, unsettled her. Under the glossy trophy glass, her reflection seemed to roll its eyes.

Mark watched the scene with interest. Clara realized he was staring at her intently, trying to read how she felt. She managed a nervous laugh. "Thanks, Greg. I… I do love them, really. Just try not to steal the art room's spotlight."

Greg winked. "See you in class, Picasso!" He tossed a petal into Clara's hair playfully and bounded off.

Clara brushed the petal off and took the bouquet from his departing hands. After the hallway cleared, she leaned back against her locker. The corridor noise dimmed around her. Inside her head, the trophy-case reflection delivered a snarky running commentary about Greg's ego.

She took a pen from her bag and drew a small rose and lightning bolt in the margins of her sketchbook. The rose unfurled on its own, petals fluttering slightly, while the lightning zigzagged in shimmering silver. For a moment, Clara thought the lockers behind her quivered in reaction to her doodles. She closed the sketchbook firmly and pinned it under her arm.

Mark jogged up from class to catch up. "So, Mr. Flowers, no surprise attack on me?" he teased.

Clara held up one sunflower like a trophy. "I guess I get to smell nice today," she quipped.

Mark laughed softly. "You always do." He offered her a small, knowing smile.

They headed off together to class – Mark chatting about the critique – and Clara felt a new lightness in her step. The bouquet in her arms bobbed with their stride, and the corridor's mirrored lockers reflected her determined grin. For once, the reflection seemed to agree with her.

Later that afternoon, Clara wandered into a department store a few blocks from campus. She told herself she needed a replacement for a lost glove, but really it was the glossy mannequins that drew her in. The store's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, turning the dressing room area into a miniature stage. Clara marched up to a mirror and pretended it was just another unfinished portrait. On the other side of the glass, her reflection regarded her skeptically, like a critic waiting to be impressed.

She pulled out a simple blue dress from the rack. In the mirror, her image seemed tired. Clara let her eyes linger on her silhouette and imagined the dress as strokes of paint. "Wow, Clara," she thought with a half-smirk, "so much for subtlety." The mirror reflection offered a winking flourish, as if in on the joke.

The scent of Greg's flowers still lingered faintly from her backpack, mixing oddly with the smell of new fabric and plastic hangers. Clara tried a crimson sundress next, stepping out from behind the curtain. When she emerged, a golden paper crown floated above her head in the mirror's surface, haloing her with something ephemeral. The crown looked absurd perched atop her head, yet in the glossy mirror it fit perfectly. Clara instinctively reached up to feel for it, but her hand touched only air. Behind her, the store lights flickered once – or perhaps it was just her imagination playing tricks.

She laughed quietly, partly at the surrealness, partly at her own reflection's smug look. The small voice at the back of her mind whispered something like, "Not bad, Your Majesty." In reality, Clara murmured, "Crown, huh? It's amazing the store sells so many costumes these days." She imagined the crown turning slowly, weaving flecks of light across her hair as if it had a life of its own.

Just then Mark turned the corner of the aisle, balancing a stack of art magazines on one arm and a shopping basket in the other. His eyes nearly did a double-take at the sight of Clara framed by the mirror. He raised his eyebrows, and for once looked as charmed as he always sounded when he studied color mixing. Clara's heart tripped over itself.

Mark waved shyly. "Clara? Trying on the royal collection?" he called softly from behind the glass. The crown vanished in the reflection as if his presence had reminded reality who was real.

Clara pulled the sundress off the hanger quickly, cheeks flushed. "I mean, maybe," she retorted. In truth, she was surprised to see him here, catching him apparently about as off-guard as she felt. Mark looked casually handsome in a sweater, with a hint of pink on his cheeks from the afternoon chill. A skeptical smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Just doing a quality check on the mirrors. Looks like they're up to date."

He laughed and came forward. Behind them, mannequins watched with blank eyes. One mannequin's painted eyelids suddenly fluttered closed, then reopened, as if adjusting to the dim corner of the store. Clara's pulse sped up.

Mark noticed the half-empty magazine stack slipping in his hand. Clara quickly gathered them for him. Her fingers brushed lightly against his; a quiet charge of warmth passed between them. The mirror behind caught that moment and bent their figures ever so slightly – not in reality, but in Clara's imagination, as if they were two figures in a sketch drawn closer by a fine line of electricity.

"I didn't know you liked department store shopping," Mark said after Clara steadied his stack. He looked amused. "Maybe I should join you next time you pick out a dress."

"Be my guest. I could use a second opinion," she said, sincerity creeping into her tone. The voice in her head whooped, "Finally!" but she just laughed softly. In the mirror, the mannequin behind them seemed to lean forward a bit, silently observing the two of them.

Mark glanced at Clara's reflection and tilted his head. "That blue one you were checking out earlier would look great on you," he said with genuine confidence. "But actually," he gestured to the red sundress in her hand, "this color suits you better."

Clara blinked at the suggestion. It was the first time he'd ever complimented her clothing. Her face warmed and a careful hope blossomed in her chest. "Maybe you're right," she admitted, letting the red sundress slide over her frame again. In the mirror, as Mark stood right behind her, the golden crown reappeared, shimmering faintly in time with her quickened heartbeat.

She couldn't tell if the crown in the mirror was real or wishful thinking. Either way, she grinned at her mirrored self. When Mark commented on the dress's fit, it felt free of any magical sparkles – just his voice and her ears. Clara nodded softly, trusting this reflection more than any other.

After a little more shopping banter, Mark checked out, giving her a small wave. Clara walked out of the department store into the gray afternoon, carrying both the red dress bag and a new flutter in her heart. She peeked at her reflection in the car window and noticed that when no one was looking directly, she still wore the crown. For a moment she imagined scribbling a tiny crown in her sketchbook. Instead, she tucked the idea into her mind like a secret page and continued on her way, feeling strangely regal even without a crown.

The evening art class was a cozy chaos of easels and conversation. The smell of linseed oil and acrylics overpowered any trace of after-school fatigue. Clara carried her sketchbook inside, setting it on the stool before her blank canvas. Greg arrived moments later, already draped in a paint-splattered apron and a grin too broad for the steady stream of paint dripping from his brush.

"Clara, look at this!" Greg announced triumphantly. In his hands was a haphazard sculpture of crumpled newspaper twisted together, topped with one of the leftover sunflowers from his latest delivery. He held it out like a trophy. "I call it 'Man of the Hour'," he said with flourish. Atop the figure's twiggy shoulders, Greg had stuck the sunflower head. Clara blinked at the lopsided tower. "Wow," she murmured. "Very… striking." Inside her mind, she dubbed it Man of the Hour Who Needs a Mirror.

Greg nudged her canvas. "And what are you working on, Picasso?"

Clara laughed and waved her sketchbook like a secret weapon. "Just some practice strokes." But in truth, her canvas held the beginnings of a portrait—an outline of a familiar face, an attentive ear, the tilt of a neck. She had started with the curve of Mark's jawline, remembering it from a quick sketch she'd done that morning. Her strokes were subtle, but by the flicker of the overhead light, the portrait seemed to smile faintly in greeting.

Mark sat at the back, focused on an abstract of swirling waves of color – probably for the afternoon critique. Clara caught her breath. Painting him felt risky, but she couldn't stop. She straightened her back and dabbed a bit of cerulean blue onto her palette — a mark of his eyes in progress. The paint shimmered wetly. She focused on capturing the exact color of his pupils.

Greg sidled up beside her, balancing a dusty palette in one hand. "Painting something interesting? This looks a bit gray," he said. "Like my dad's old raincoat." He sniffed the canvas theatrically. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Clara fought back a smile. "Gray can be interesting, trust me. You just have to paint it well," she said, plucking the palette from Greg's hands. "Actually, it needs something." On impulse, she added a fine flick of gold paint to the inner corners of the portrait's eyes. Golden flecks danced in the wet black of Mark's painted pupils, tiny stars captured in acrylic.

The eyes on the canvas blinked at her, and for a second Clara thought she heard Mark's voice whisper, Thank you.

Greg staggered dramatically. "Whoa, did you—did that move?" he asked, stepping back. His mouth hung open like he expected the canvas to leap off the easel.

Clara rolled her eyes. "It's just paint, Greg," she said softly. "No magic today." Still, her hand rested lightly on her brush, ready to calm any more of Greg's theatrics.

A few feet away, Mark stood up to mix more color. Clara froze. The portrait was upside-down on her easel, carefully hidden from view, which made her next stroke tricky. She turned around, pretending to inspect a paint tube, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Mark's head tilt – a strand of his hair catching the light like spun silk as he reached for a brush.

"Need a hand there?" Greg offered, noticing her pause. Clara shook her head. "No, I've got it," she insisted. Mark, oblivious, dipped a brush in cobalt blue.

Across the room, the instructor's gentle voice drifted: "Study the subject, tap into truth." The words felt like a nudge. Clara's brush stilled. Mark was literally in the room – her everyday subject for months – and she wondered if that was the truth she was meant to tap into. She exhaled and dipped the brush in a deep blue to define Mark's lids more carefully.

Greg leaned over proudly. "Ta-da! What do you think?" He held up his newspaper-sunflower sculpture. "Portrait of the hottest guy in class."

Clara eyed the paper figure with mild amusement. "Sophisticated," she said flatly, placing it on the ground. "A masterpiece of modern art." Inside, she wasn't sure who he'd meant by "the hottest guy," but she played along.

Just then, the sunflower head on the sculpture dropped a petal that fluttered onto Clara's canvas. She looked down, surprised to see the golden speck land exactly at the corner of Mark's painted mouth, forming a tiny smile. By the time she realized what happened, the petal had gently dissolved into paint, as if absorbed by the canvas.

Clara gasped. Mark's portrait was definitely winking now.

"Clara," Mark's voice said softly. She jumped nearly a foot. He was standing right behind her easel, not where she'd expected him to come up.

"Oh! Uh, thanks," she said, turning around. Mark stood close, the classroom breeze off the open window ruffling his hair.

He pointed at her sketchbook peeking out of her bag. "Can I see it?" he asked, eyes curious.

Her heart skipped. That was bold. She had kept this secret portrait as a bit of a stunt, but if he wanted to see her art… maybe it wasn't so bad. She opened the sketchbook slowly. The pages revealed preliminary charcoal sketches of him: his profile, his eyes, the tilt of his head from class.

Mark's eyes immediately softened. "I—I didn't know you drew me," he said, tracing a fingertip over the page.

Clara met his gaze. Her smile was shy. "Well, I do a lot of people-sketching," she shrugged. The tension in her chest relaxed a bit. Painting his portrait had somehow made the air between them lighter.

Greg wandered back with brushes dripping. "Everything okay here?" he asked. The sunflower on his head was still intact, a crown on a curious king.

Clara stood up straight, protecting her canvas with one hand. "It's great. Mark's just giving me an artistic critique."

Mark chuckled. "Your gray tones needed more gold," he teased. He gave her a small, genuine smile. "Seriously, your technique is really good."

Clara hesitated between beaming with pride and acting modest. The truth was, it felt amazing to be complimented for her art, not just her clothes or her laugh. "Thanks," she said softly.

As the class ended and others packed up, Clara realized Greg had drifted off to help another student. She and Mark were now by themselves, clearing up. She held the canvas carefully while casually tucking her sketchbook back into her bag. In the warm lamp light, the half-finished portrait of Mark glowed quietly, like an undiscovered star.

The art studio was hushed now that most students had gone. Overhead lights cast long shadows on the floor, and cleaning up after class felt like the soft encore to a concert. Clara and Mark were the only ones left, gathering brushes and wiping palettes. The air smelled of water and paint thinner, a scent Clara had come to associate with quiet possibilities.

Mark carefully dipped a cloth into the cleaning bucket, its surface shimmering with rainbow swirls of paint. When he looked down, Clara saw his reflection turned into a kaleidoscope of color. She smiled at the distorted image, which winked at her. Mark caught her eye in the bucket's mirror.

"You know," he began, voice gentle, "you're really talented."

Clara froze mid-wipe of a brush. "Ugh, no need to say that," she muttered, but his compliment lingered in her mind. He seemed sincere, and it made her heart tremble softly, like a brush left undisturbed in water.

Mark flipped the cloth. "I mean it. When you paint… it's honest. There's no fake shine. It's real."

This time Clara let the words sink in. "Thanks," she said quietly. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, feeling suddenly aware of how small and ordinary her hands looked holding the paint rag. The dripping cloth left a bright blue spot on the white tile, a tiny mirror catching light at an odd angle.

They worked side by side. Mark was methodical and quiet as he rinsed out a brush. His brow was furrowed over a task he did with care. Clara watched him, amused and nervous. She couldn't remember the last time someone had complimented her painting so sincerely.

The only sound was the soft scrubbing of brushes and the distant hum of the hallway cooling system. In that calm, Mark spoke softly: "I've always felt like the quiet one in my family, you know? My family is big on academics, not art. When I see someone draw like you do… it inspires me. Not in a 'give-you-flowers-again' way," he joked lightly, gesturing at the discarded bouquet of petals by their feet. "But… inspiring."

Clara's heart pinched at his words. She gently swirled her brush in the bucket and looked at his reflection in the water. The ripples made Mark's face flicker with emotion – hope? fear? It was hard to read. She leaned closer. "You're an artist, too," she said, surprising herself. "Your color mixing – the way you layer paints – it's like poetry. You just didn't notice it."

Mark glanced up, surprised by the compliment. His cheeks tinted with a warm peach color. "Really? I thought I was just throwing blobs around."

"It's like you let the colors talk," Clara said softly, remembering how carefully he had blended those waves of blue. "Every stroke has meaning."

Mark gave a half-smile. "I wish someone else saw it that way," he admitted.

When he spoke, Clara found herself looking directly into his eyes reflected in the bucket. She quickly looked away, blushing. In the reflection, he seemed more vulnerable than she'd ever seen him. The studio lights made soft halos around their heads. For a moment, it felt like they stood in their own little painting.

Mark paused the cleaning to rearrange a few brushes. "I'm glad we ended up in the same class," he said quietly. "I mean, I look at your work and… I don't know." He picked up the small newspaper sculpture with the sunflower on top, nodding at Greg's craft. "This," he said, holding the crumpled paper figure, "I gave this to my little sister. She thinks it's the coolest thing."

Clara blinked. "Your sister?" She remembered Mark mentioning he had a little sister once, a kid who loved art.

He nodded shyly. "Yeah. She's six. She loves art. She looks up to you, I think." He hesitated. "I… I was wondering – maybe we could paint together sometime? You know, outside of class."

Clara's pulse startled in her chest. The notion of spending time one-on-one felt both thrilling and terrifying. She found herself gripping a rag with both hands to keep from fidgeting. "That sounds… nice," she managed. Her insides felt like wet paint: messy but vivid.

The lights overhead flickered, and for a heartbeat Clara thought she saw the fixtures cast a reflection of two figures on the far wall: herself and Mark smiling, surrounded by splatters of paint, as if the wall had become a canvas. When the lights steadied, it was gone.

Mark stepped closer. All the clutter on the counter – brushes, tubes, rags – seemed to fade out of focus. The only thing Clara could feel was his hand barely touching hers as he handed her a paint tube to clean. The contact sent warmth through her, like a watercolor bleeding a bit outside its line.

Their eyes met directly now. Mark's gaze was earnest. "I mean it, Clara," he said. "You're something special."

Clara's cheeks warmed, and she caught a small glimpse of her reflection in the paint on his fingers: it was softer than real life, kinder. Her sardonic inner voice warned, "Careful, princess. Reality might not be this nice." But for once, she ignored it.

She smiled genuinely at Mark. "Thanks," she whispered. "I think you're pretty special, too."

Mark's smile turned shy. He looked at her intently, as if he hoped she really meant it. "Good," he said softly. "Maybe we can see each other again… after galleries and classes have closed."

Clara felt something solid ground her, a confident brushstroke in her stomach. "I'd like that," she said.

They finished the cleanup and turned off the lights together. As they walked out of the studio, the hallway lights flickered behind them. In the dark window reflecting their exit, Clara saw a fused image: two artists side by side, each a reflection of the other's bravest self.

The rain had started gently, then steadily, by the time Clara and Mark stepped out of the building. Overhead the sky was a sheet of oily gray, and street lights had turned on, pooling golden halos in the puddles on the sidewalk. Each drop on the umbrella sounded like a small drum. They huddled under one black umbrella, shoulders touching. Clara noticed how close Mark's arm brushed hers when they shared the little shelter; neither said anything, but the silence felt comfortable.

Mark wrapped the umbrella higher, and water beaded off the edge. Clara looked down. In the puddles at their feet, their umbrellas were mirrored like floating jellyfish, twin spines meeting at the seam. In one particularly deep puddle she peered at their reflection — two figures side by side. For a moment it looked like a watercolor painting: soft lines, blurred edges.

"Funny," Mark said quietly, breaking the silence, "I always envied how you create these worlds in paint. You just make things; I only see them."

Clara smiled without looking at him. "I think you see more than you give yourself credit for," she replied. "To me, everything looks better when you look at it."

He tipped his head modestly. "Is that the wine talking?" he joked softly, even though neither of them had any.

Clara's mouth twitched. "No, it's just me," she answered. The air smelled like wet asphalt and the faint memory of paint thinner from class. A blush crept up her neck. "Really."

They reached a corner café where they paused, neither wanting to go inside without the other. The rainy street stretched on, lights and shadows playing in the drips around them. Clara brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "It's kind of dreamy out here," she said after a moment. "Like we're in some romantic painting."

Mark looked at her, genuinely surprised. "Do I see romantic here?" he asked with a grin.

Clara's mouth twisted into a smile. "I see... suspenseful. A bit dramatic."

"Like some scene from an old movie? Noir-ish?" he said, grinning wider.

"More like magical-realist noir," Clara replied dryly. "Except—" She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. "For once it's actually kind of nice to be someone's damsel and not know how it ends."

Mark's expression softened. "I'm liking this story so far," he said. "Maybe we should finish it."

Thunder rumbled softly in the distance. Clara tucked another loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Stories are easier when the hero doesn't disappear."

Mark looked puzzled for a second, then he realized she was speaking metaphorically. He stepped a little closer under the umbrella. "I'm not planning to disappear," he assured her, his voice earnest. "I promise."

Clara let a corner of a smile slip. The rain suddenly turned heavy, drumming louder on the umbrella. Without thinking, Mark gently pulled her a bit closer. Clara felt the warmth of his body seep through her coat. Her sardonic inner voice tried to interject, but with the rain and his closeness, she only thought: This is exactly where I wanted to be.

Their reflection in the crosswalk's flooded asphalt was distorted and shimmering. It gave them elongated silhouettes, as if they were slipping into one another. The crown from earlier felt completely forgotten on her head. Now, under the umbrella's circle of calm, the only magic was in Mark's steady eyes.

"Clara," he said softly. "You know, you're the first person who really noticed things the way I do. Some people just… never notice." His voice trailed off. "What I mean is, I really like talking with you."

She smiled genuinely. "I like talking to you, too." Her fingers brushed his hand, and she didn't pull away.

They started walking again, avoiding the biggest puddles. In the wet pavement, streetlights became little suns on the ground, like stars fallen from the sky. Each step Mark took was careful so they wouldn't slip.

"You painted me so real in class tonight," Mark said quietly. "Better than I saw myself, even."

Clara glanced at him. "You are real," she replied. Her voice was steady, with no hint of sarcasm this time. "Not some fairy tale. You helped me see that."

There was no sparkle or fanfare when she spoke, just the gentle patter of rain and the soft rustle of the umbrella over them.

Mark's face lit with a soft happiness. "Good," he said. "Because you're important to me."

Clara felt warmth spread through her chest at his words. She realized she had been holding her breath. Finally, she exhaled into the cool night.

They stopped at a crosswalk and waited for the light. Across from them was a gilded building with big glass doors. The rain turned a red traffic light into a fiery reflection on the ground. Clara looked at Mark's face, illuminated from below by the glow of that red puddle. Instead of a painted crown from earlier in the store, this red glow made him look steady and true.

Without any magic or mirror at all, Mark smiled. "Walk you home?" he asked softly.

She nodded. Under the umbrella, Mark's warmth felt surprisingly close. As they turned the corner, leaving the crosswalk behind, Clara thought of all the mirrors she knew—windows and puddles and sketchbook pages—and realized none of them mattered. The only image she saw clearly now was the one reflected in Mark's eyes: herself, just as she was, enough on her own.