THE showcase was wilder than a blizzard. Which New York got hit with two days before launch. For eight hours. I was only just thankful that I was stuck in the gallery when it hit; managing to finish a lot of prep work alongside other winners and a few of the main showcased artists, and eternally, proverbially grateful for the fully functional heating system and the director's bathroom that had a shower.

Food was a little more scarce, but New Yorkers were New Yorkers, even in the fancier parts, and made do with a leftover pizza box, a bottle of gin someone who had dug up from somewhere, and three unopened glasses of champagne, no doubt by some other showcase event.

Ross wasn't as lucky; he waited out the blizzard in- all places - a taxidermy specific antique shop. The owner was kind enough to let him stay, but he said that it came with the price of either buying a stuffed ostrich or dating the old woman's daughter. Twice his age, watched Jeopardy reruns all day, and petted a stuffed cat.

He settled for the ostrich.

Between laughter and tears, I asked him where the hell was he going to stuff the ostrich that came five whole feet taller than him. And Ross modelled for New York Fashion Week for two years. He was tall.

"What do you mean where? I'm already sending this to my brother's place." His grin was bright, and I felt extreme pity for whichever Beauchard brother was going to receive it. "It's his early Christmas gift. I'm keeping the vinyl recorder."

"You don't even have vinyl records."

"I can start buying them!"

"Fake Ass Pretentious Hispter."

"You won't be saying that when you're grooving to my new vinyl record with wine and smooth jazz, Naddy darling."

"Touché."

The day of the showcase, as everyone rushed to finish last minute details— the doors had opened, people had came— some, key people I knew from word mouth and reputation — and the madness had descended in a perfect little flurry.

I smiled as Ross caught my eye across the packed room, mingling and chatting with people so naturally- existing in a place where he truly knew how to work his magic - threw me a wink over a cheered glass of champagne. I snorted when I realized it was the same brand as I had drink days prior.

I grinned back, cheering him from my own glass, before looking around and sighing in satisfaction. Sure, my toes pinched in my heels, and I was more than aware that my back was fully exposed and the front of my dress showed ample cleavage, dipped low enough to be considered dangerous— but I was here. I was present in this moment and I didn't care.

Art was something that had always been there for me, a growing love that my grandmother first caught after she found my fingers, face and hair dirtied in paint. Mama had laughed loud, helping me clean up before my mother found us, before she helped me fixed my mess.

The next day, she bought me my first easel and set of watercolor.

Art wasn't just an expression of a person and what it meant when it came from their hands; it was an expression of people, of life outside the artist. Of what a single individual with a pair of eyes can see the world. Feeling small and big at the same time.

Art captures a very small part of the picture. A glimpse.

Art was to tell a story, a story one person can see, and let other people decide what to take from that story. If they even see the same story at all. Art could mean an entirely different thing from a different pair of eyes.

That was how flexible art is.

And I watched it all now, for the last day of the showcase, my stories with others, being seen and judged and interpreted by people of varying degrees. The pride and joy of the past few days settled so tightly on my shoulders that I closed my eyes, unable to contain my grin, and just let it all sink for the last time before I had to go back school and hunger for the next time I get the chance to capture this feeling.

"Congratulations, Ms. Lynch."

I opened my eyes, smiling at a beaming Roslyn. I offered a tilt of my own champagne. From her own red cheeks and ears, my fellow winner was tipsy. "And to you, Ms. Clay."

She intertwined our elbows together and we began strolling. The lights dimmed for the exhibits, the music quiet and seductive. In this little corner of Manhattan, dreams were being made. Getting exhausted for its all worth.

New York was not New York if not thorough.

"I'm not ready to go back home yet." Roslyn sighed, leaning her head on my shoulder. She was shorter and made easier with my taller stature and heels. "It all feels... surreal. Like it's not just a dream, it's- it's an alternate reality where it's all magical and amazing."

I chuckled. I could relate to that. "That's the thing though, it's not an alternate reality. This is our life and it's happening. I mean it's not a set in stone deal, but you know, who knows. It's starting to be a good start for the future."

"It is." She stood straight, gulping the rest of her champagne in seconds.

I raised an eyebrow. "Whoa there. I get the celebratory course of action, but I think you need to slow down. How many have you had?"

Her cheeks were dusted a very light pink for a while now, and when she shook her head, it felt a little looser than just your average exclamation of refusal.

"Irrelevant. I started talking with a dealer. Yesterday. He said he liked my pieces. He's going to be on the lookout for me in the future, he said. Gave me a business card and everything. I was so shocked, I nearly cried. This is my celebratory toast...s." She giggled at her little addendum, rose cheeked and misty eyed.

"Roslyn, that's amazing, oh my god." There was one small prick of envy, but I let it wash away. Roslyn had an amazing eye for structure and knew exactly how to frame a story on canvas. No matter how gripping the envy could become, the bigger picture was the fact that someone had seen what I did in her.

"Congratulations," I said sincerely.

She blushed at the weight of it. "Thank you. I can't believe it honestly. And just a week ago my mother complained for the seventeenth time how I was wasting my time and money for this course." She sniffed, her eyes curled, smile watery. "She's always wanted me to do something easy. Something that could get a decent job without burying me in loans. Practical choices, you know?"

Unconditional support was a shaky figure if you put that on the wrong people. It can be even made worse when its the exact people who should be supporting you.

"At least now you can prove her wrong."

"Yeah." Her smile was so dreamlike that I couldn't help but hug her.

"Yeah," she repeated softly, burrowing her head on my collarbone.

We each have our own stories, living out our lives with as much vigor as the next. Our stories weren't just etched on canvas, but on skin. On our faces, our expressions. It was finding a way to be heard and to be able to hear, and just how loud you need to be to cement your place.

I was glad for Roslyn, and I couldn't wait for my time.

"Oh, hey! Hey, Cariño!" I nearly jumped at the raised decibel of Roslyn's usually chill, sweet voice so close to my ear, and she gave me an apologetic smile when I pulled away, but she continued to holler at someone behind me, grinning happily and drunkenly. "You've got to meet my cousin, he's brilliant. Well, from business-like than say, art expression- got no eye for it at all, the dumbass - but hey! I want you to meet her! He asked about you."

She smirked, as if we were both in on a well-worn secret.

"Me?" My mind pressed a single entity that I knew had the name Cariño to their name, but surely. Surely. As overpopulated as New York, it couldn't have been the same person.

But New York, proving to be the land of miracles- or just a small city in general - made me wrong.

"Well, he saw a piece of yours yesterday when I showed pictures, and I think he saw you in one of them, and he asked about you."

"Oh. That's very flattering." I turned, looking out for someone with Roslyn's features. She was pale, freckled to almost every inch of skin, and a natural redhead. The Cariño I knew was olive toned, no freckle in sight, and dark haired to the roots. Except, of course, the few strands of white.

"What's his name?" I asked, trying not to sound desperate. Trying to calm my racing heart. Because surely not.

Among the fluidity of bodies, one face leaped at my heart and snagged it.

Same face, same smile, same devilish eyes.

"Hollis Cariño."

BREAK

What could I tell you about Hollis Cariño that could sum up every painful and confusing memory without dredging up- not even the heartbreak itself, but even just a silver window, the breath of the heartbreak's memory? It's very ghost, haunting at the at the crevices, its nooks, unnamed, but present?

Hollis Cariño was perfect for a first love- gentleman, sweet, showed you exactly how much he cherished you. He was, I guess in a way, an ideal first heartbreak as well.

Memories of it so painful, you could never forget it. You make a lesson out of it. A reminder. Make a makeshift ideology, an analogy- love, true, horrendously emotional love, is the act of giving someone your heart, letting them hold it in one clenched fist and helplessly begging them in your head not to squeeze too tight to break it.

Hollis Cariño was the personified nightmare of first loves.

So it wasn't so shocking that as soon as I saw him, I was already gone.

There was recognition as our eyes met, recognition that spun away to memories I did not want to break apart and test.

I stumbled out of Roslyn's arms who had yelped and called after me, no doubt confused. I will apologize to her later, owe her a portrait or two, it didn't matter. Facing Hollis was something I promised I was not going to do. If not for the me now, then for the girl who was left broken the first time.

But right now was no better either; nothing could prepare you for an abrupt meet with the very reason you had a hard time committing to people. I was gasping, my heart was constricted. Years of trauma I thought I had long since forgotten and buried, came back like a raw wound. The music was not comforting, the faces, a dizzying singular character- the room was squeezing me into quarters. It was claustrophobic. The memories wanted me to focus on them, to reel me in, but I inhaled sharply and kept them away.

I had to keep swimming, or I'd be drowning in the haunts that demanded me to return.

I was stumbling, running, until I ran into Ross.

It was his scent I met first- a familiar and comforting presence of aftershave, perfume and some body salve that makes his skin shiny and smelling like honeyed pastries.

I gasped an inhale, confused tears welling up. Then I laughed. Because I felt safe. With Ross came everything of the present, and I was safe.

"Whoa, whoa - Naddy, look at me, what happened?"

I shook my head, gasping through bubbly, panicky laughter. My lungs felt like they were caving in.

Ross lowered his head, frowning. I couldn't look up. "What? What did you say?"

"Outside."

A park bench, hot coffees from a stand, and about an hour later, I exhaled. The night was cold and crisp, a looming threat of hypothermia between coddled fingers. It felt refresing. The biting cold keeping me steady, grounded.

Ross listened to my soft, detached murmur of what had happened with nothing but pursed lips and knotted eyebrows.

"Well shit," Ross cursed a beat after I finished. "What do you want to do now? Do you want to do anything? We can just sit down here and freeze to death."

My smile was small but it felt real. "Far more tempting than going back inside."

But Ross shook his head. "You're not going back there. That's a given. I'll bar you personally from the door, Nadine Lynch, watch me. I'm sure your professor can forgive you since it's the last day. Although to be honest, from the way she was swaying, I'm sure she's forgotten about half her middle name right now, so I think we're cool on that front."

He fully turned to me at my nods, taking my hand. "You're what's more important right now, love."

"Yeah..."

"What is it?"

"I don't think I can go home like this," I said quietly, my chest still tight.

Ross' furrowed eyebrows and silver eyes would've been comical if I hadn't been feeling like shit. He pulled his entire body to face me, even raising his leg on the bench. The lights of Manhattan did him justice. He was such a city boy through and through, that the backdrop, the noise- it fitted him in it.

"You need to tell me what's going on in your head, darling, or I can't help you."

I laughed breathily. "Why do you insist on being everyone's knight in shining armor? The one who loves and adores them to the fullest extent, even in such a short term? Why do you never stray from that rule you've put, never letting yourself feel right afterwards? Never looking back? Why do you enjoy loving and caring for people and never wanting to be loved back, at least, not properly?"

He reeled back as if I had slapped him.

I blinked at him, smiling softly as I acquised that as his answer.

Not until he straightened and said, "It's easier that way, isn't it? Less chance of getting broken too. It's statistics. Probability of chance."

"But you're also losing your chance of actually being loved. Of finding- "

" - the one?" He raised an eyebrow, smile mocking.

I matched his smile. "Guess we're both cut from the same ugly little cloth, huh?"

He snorted, pulling his leg away to sit close to me until our body heat felt like one. I leaned my head on his shoulders and he settled his head above mine. This was us. Ross and Naddy, too fucked up to actually love and be loved. Scared of those who can get close, who even breathes any sign of affection pass easy flirting and one night stand hurrah, so shuts them out before they could even do anything that could remotely warm their cold, dead hearts.

I'd like to say very cautious heartbreakers if made to face a jury, but even that sounds too close to perjury than I would like to admit in court.

He kissed the top of my head. "And that's why I'll always love you the best. Who knows, we can even do those 'When We're Forty, Let's Marry Each Other'. People would see it coming. They'd be disappointed- especially Ella - but not surprised. Soulmates 'till the bloody end." He nudged me, smirking. "I'd be a good husband, you know. And if we do decide on kids, I already have my heart set on a girl's name."

"Pray tell, what is the name of our nonexistent daughter?"

"Amina."

I smiled. "Pretty."

"Of course she is. We're raising her Mormon, by the way."

We laughed hard until air felt too harsh to inhale. Ross' mother was a proud and practicing Muslim, and though my father wasn't entirely religious, he was born and raised in a Southwest Catholic household.

Then an idea.

"That's it."

"As much as I would enjoy so, Naddy dear, the cold, I think, has rendered my balls a little useless, and we're both still in university to have our precious little-"

I hit his shoulder with a thwack. "Not that!"

"Okay." He blinked, holding his arm. Ever dramatic. "Ow."

"15 days," I exhaled, a smile bright and wide stretching across my face.

"What?"

"15 days. Or more than. I feel like more than is more than fair, you can consider it a best friends discount."

"Naddy, I don't know what I'm selling discounts for- " His words stuttered, mouth in a perfect 'O' shape. Then his face turned serious. "You can't be serious."

"Dead set."

He frowned. "Nadine, this isn't- "

"I'm confused, broken-hearted, and still hurt." I cleared my throat when my voice cracked. The words were tough to get out, but that only means how true they were. It's never good to anyone's pride to admit their hurt, even to their best friends. "I'm an eligible candidate."

"Jesus." His elbows dug down to his knees, his fingers curling around his hair. Then he turned again, eyes sharp. "Bucky. What about Bucky?"

I shrugged. "There was never an us."

"What? But you kissed him just days ago- what do you mean - "

" - I mean we both realized how that was a mistake, a moment's weakness," I said smoothly. "I was upset, he had way too many shots- he was sweet and comforting, and I was angry and emotional. I have no doubt this whole dating around thing is something that he just needs out of his system, and that there is actually someone out there who will adore Bucky Choi as much as he does when he's in love, but that's not me."

"Naddy..."

"I don't know how to love someone like him, Ross." I took his hand, cold and knotted, and started warming it up. "I have a hard time loving someone period, but someone like Bucky with a stale heart like ours? I don't need to peek at the ending to know that I will be the one who will break his heart next, and I don't want to do that."

I pulled him to me, bringing our foreheads to touch. Ross was comfort in every way imagineable. If soulmates were more than just romantic, then Ross was my other half in most lifetimes.

"Fifteen days," I continued. "Actually make that a month. Or more than, just... I'm sick and tired of feeling this way. I know a part of you does too. And just like you said. You know we'd be perfect."

He inhaled deeply and exhaled some. There was determination and defeat, and he pressed his lips to me once. Chaste and honest. He didn't feel like Bucky, all sparks and warmth in a cold, but he was just as comfortable and everything I need.

"You got yourself a deal, Nadine Lynch."