LanVille College looks different at night.
The usual chatter of students and the sound of sneakers on pavement are replaced by soft murmurs and classical music drifting from the Fine Arts Hall. The place glows under dims of golden light, transforming the dull campus building into a dreamy world of canvases and curiosity.
Stiles Marvy stands outside, holding the strap of his cross bag. He's the kind of guy who blends into the background, tall, lean, with messy brown hair that refuses to cooperate and thoughtful grey eyes that seem to analyze everything they see. A literature major who prefers words to people, he's only here because his best friend and roommate, Ethan Hunts, practically dragged him.
"C'mon man! you need to be lively a little," Ethan insists, slapping him on the back. "You can't keep writing about life if you never actually experience it."
"I write fiction," Stiles replies emotionless. "I don't need to experience heartbreak to describe it."
Ethan grins. "Maybe not. But it wouldn't hurt to look at some art or some artists."
Stiles rolls his eyes and reluctantly follows him inside.
The exhibition is alive, students in semi-formal outfits, professors sipping wine, and laughter bouncing off the walls filled with paintings, sculptures, and digital displays. The scent of paint oils and perfume mix in the air.
Then, he sees it.
A painting that stops him cold and amusingly lost.
It's a girl, standing in a field of broken glass, her reflection scattered across a hundred of glass pieces. The colors are soft yet powerful, a paradox of fragility and strength. The signature at the corner reads: Alisson West.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" a voice says from behind.
Stiles turns, and there she is.
Alisson West, the artist herself. A fine arts student known across campus for her talent and mystery. Her hair falls in loose dark curls over her shoulders, her skin a warm honey tone glowing under the exhibition lights. Her eyes are deep brown with flecks of gold, she has a look that holds both curiosity and confidence.
She's not just beautiful. She's elegant.
"I was just… admiring the technique," Stiles manages to say, stuttering.
Alisson smiles, a hint of teasing in her tone. "Most people just say they like it."
"Well, I'm not most people."
"Clearly," she says, crossing her arms. "So, Mr. Not-Most-People, what do you see?"
He looks at the painting again. "A person trying to put themselves back together. Every shred shows a version of her, some she accepts, some she doesn't. It's… accepting humanity."
Alisson thinks a little hard, impressed. "That's actually not bad. Most people say it's about heartbreak, depression blah blah."
"Maybe it is. But heartbreak isn't always about losing someone. Sometimes it's about losing yourself."
Her smile widens slowly and genuinely.
"You talk like a writer."
"Guilty," he says. "Stiles Marvy. Literature major."
"Alisson West. Art student. Exhibit currently under review by a deep thinker."
They both laugh..... the kind of laughter that feels easy, unforced and natural.
Ethan returns just then, holding two glasses of lemonades. He spots them and smirks. "I see you met the artist, Stiles. Told you art girls are trouble."
Alisson chuckles. "You'd be surprised at the amount of harm i can cause."
"hmm, let's find out," Ethan says, winking before wandering off.
When they're alone again, Stiles gestures to the painting. "You really captured something here. Do you ever worry that people won't get it?"
"Always," she says softly. "But then, art isn't about being understood. It's about being felt."
He nods. "Then congratulations cos it worked."
For a moment, neither of them says anything. The noise of the gallery fades into a distant hum, slow rhythmic music plays in the background and there's just the two of them, two artists of different mediums, drawn together by a force unexplained.
Then, a sharp voice cuts through the crowd.
"Alisson!!"
A tall, athletic guy in a leather black jacket strides toward them, confident with a slight arrogance in his smile. Carter Allen, campus golden boy and Alisson's ex-boyfriend, even though their relationship was so short, also an art major. Stiles recognizes him immediately; Carter's work is often praised by professors for its "bold intensity." He's also known for not liking competition in both art or love.
"Didn't think I'd find you chatting with… literature majors or anyone else," Carter says, his tone rude and annoying.
Alisson's expression changes. "Carter....., don't start."
"what??," Carter says, glancing at Stiles. "Just curious. Didn't know you traded paint for poetry."
Stiles remains calm, his voice level. "And I didn't know art exhibitions came with territorial dominance."
Carter's jaw tightens, but Alisson quickly eases the tension. "Enough."
Carter scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and walks away. The tension lingers like smoke.
"Sorry about that," Alisson says, exhaling. "Carter doesn't handle… endings very well."
Stiles shrugs. "He's probably just jealous."
"Of what?"
He meets her eyes. "That your art speaks for you better than he ever could."
For a second, she's speechless. Then she laughs softly, warmly. "You really do talk like a writer."
"Occupational hazard."
He said.
"Maybe I should read some of your work sometime," she says, smiling.
"Maybe you should."
As the night unfolds, they drift through the gallery together. He asks about her inspiration; she asks about his favorite writers. They discover they both love rainy days, old record players, and late-night coffee that tastes like burnt sugar.
When the crowd starts thinning, Alisson pulls out her sketchbook from her tote bag.
"Want to see something no one else has seen yet?"
"You trust a stranger that much?"
"Strangers are the best audience," she says with a small smile.
She opens to a charcoal sketch: two silhouettes under an umbrella, blurred as if in motion. The emotion behind it feels raw and tender yet incomplete.
"It's beautiful," he murmurs. "But unfinished."
"Like most things worth feeling," she replies.
They stand there in silence for a while before she adds:
"There's an after party, but I'm skipping it. I'd rather walk by the lake. Clears my head."
"Mind if I join?"
"Only if you promise not to analyze everything I say."
"No promises."
They walk under dim campus lights, their steps matching unconsciously. The moon ripples across the water as Alisson tosses a pebble into the lake.
"You know what scares me most about art?" she says. "Once you show it, it's not yours anymore."
Stiles looks at her, the wind moving through her hair.
"Maybe that's the point," he says softly. "To make something that belongs to the world."
She glances at him, and for a heartbeat, the night holds its breath.
"You talk like you've felt that before," she whispers.
"Maybe I'm feeling it now."
A flicker passes between them, something quiet but undeniable. Alisson looks away first, smiling faintly.
"You're trouble, Stiles Marvy."
"And you're art, Alisson West."
The clock tower chimes eleven. The world feels suspended, two souls in the soft space between curiosity and connection.
As they part ways near the dorms, she turns to him.
"See you around, writer boy?"
"Count on it."