Charlotte wiped a streak of blue paint from her cheek, the motion automatic as she focused on the canvas in front of her. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the space heater and the occasional creak of the old house settling in the cold. Her family's home had always felt too big, too stiff, like it had been designed to impress rather than comfort. But her bedroom—even after all these years—still carried the remnants of her teenage self. The faded posters, the scratches on the desk from a restless pen, the way the ceiling sloped slightly in one corner; it was a space she'd made her own.

The painting was abstract, a swirl of winter hues that mirrored the view outside her window. Shades of blue, gray, and white blended together in sharp contrasts and soft gradients. She let her brush move without much thought, allowing instinct to guide her. Painting was one of the few places she found peace, a way to silence the noise of her thoughts and just exist.

She'd needed this escape today. Her parents had been particularly cutting at breakfast, her mother's pointed comments about her "hobby" of painting still echoing in her ears.

"I just don't understand why you can't settle down," her mother had said, her tone laced with exasperation. "Look at Cecily. She's managing a law firm and planning her wedding. Meanwhile, you're... dabbling."

Charlotte had bitten her tongue, refusing to rise to the bait. She'd been through this argument too many times, and she knew there was no winning it. Her parents' version of success had never included anything as impractical as art.

The brush in her hand moved faster now, her strokes more aggressive as she channeled her frustration into the painting. She'd spent years trying to prove to them that her work mattered, that her art was more than a hobby. And yet, every visit home felt like a regression, as if the confident woman she'd become in New York disappeared the moment she walked through their front door.

Her twin sister, Cecily, didn't help matters. Perfect Cecily, with her perfect career and her perfect fiancé. Charlotte knew she shouldn't compare herself, but it was hard not to when their parents did it for her. "Why can't you be more like Cecily?" was an old refrain, one that had haunted her since they were kids. She'd spent years trying to differentiate herself, to carve out her own identity. But here, in this house, it always felt like she fell short.

A sharp knock on the door broke her concentration. "What?" she called, her voice sharper than she intended.

"It's me," Cecily's voice came through the door, smooth and composed as ever. "Can I come in?"

Charlotte hesitated, then set her brush down. "Yeah."

The door opened, and Cecily stepped inside, looking as polished as ever in a tailored sweater and boots that probably cost more than Charlotte's entire outfit. She glanced at the canvas, her expression unreadable. "Still painting?"

"Obviously," Charlotte said, wiping her hands on a rag. "What do you want, Cecily?"

Cecily closed the door behind her and leaned against the frame. "Mom and Dad are worried about you."

Charlotte snorted. "Of course they are. How could they not be? Their flighty, irresponsible daughter has returned to ruin Christmas with her lack of a five-year plan."

Cecily sighed, crossing her arms. "You know they don't mean it like that."

"Don't they?" Charlotte shot back, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "You heard them this morning. Mom might as well have asked me outright why I'm not you."

Cecily's expression softened, and for a moment, Charlotte thought she might apologize. But instead, she said, "They just don't understand what you're trying to do."

"No," Charlotte said, her voice tight. "They don't want to understand. There's a difference."

Cecily looked like she wanted to argue but held her tongue. She glanced at the painting again, her brow furrowing slightly. "It's... beautiful. What's it for?"

Charlotte hesitated. She hadn't told anyone about the gallery she was trying to secure in New York, partly because it wasn't a done deal yet and partly because she didn't want to deal with the inevitable skepticism from her family.

"It's just something I'm working on," she said finally, her tone dismissive.

Cecily nodded, her expression unreadable. "Well, for what it's worth, I think you're talented."

Charlotte blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected compliment. "Thanks," she said quietly, unsure of how to respond.

Cecily lingered for a moment longer, then pushed off the doorframe. "Dinner's at seven," she said, her tone back to its usual businesslike cadence. "Don't be late."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Charlotte muttered as the door clicked shut behind her sister.

She stared at the canvas for a long moment, her earlier momentum drained. Cecily's words had thrown her off balance, leaving her unsure of what to feel. She picked up the brush again, her strokes slower this time, more deliberate. The painting wasn't finished, but it didn't have to be perfect. It just had to be hers.

As the light outside began to fade, Charlotte lost herself in the motion of painting, the swirl of colors and the quiet rhythm of her breath. Here, in this small, messy space, she could be exactly who she was without apology. And for now, that was enough.