Mary counted down the workdays, waiting for the weekend with a quiet kind of anticipation. The art class had become a shelter—somewhere she could breathe freely, look at unfinished canvases, and lose herself in the colors and chaos of dreams.
It was Wednesday evening. She was cooking dinner when her phone rang. An unknown number lit up the screen. She hesitated, then answered.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Mary. How are you?"
"Fine, thanks. Sorry, do I know you?"
"It's Helen. I got your number from the teacher."
"Oh! Helen! I didn't recognize your voice—sorry!"
"No worries. I just wanted to ask if you're free tomorrow. A few of us are getting together at a café."
"Tomorrow? I'll be at work until late afternoon, but I think I can come after."
"We're meeting around six. Come join us! It's a chance to get to know everyone outside the class."
"Sounds nice. I'll be there."
The next day, after her shift ended, Mary headed straight to the café. Helen greeted her at the door with a smile and guided her to a table where a few other students were gathered.
"Hey, Mary! You're a bit late."
"Sorry—work was hectic today."
"No problem at all… So, where do you work?"
"In an industrial company."
One of the girls blinked. "Really? I thought you were into art. Didn't expect you to be in the industry world."
Mary smiled. "I've always loved painting since I was a kid, but my family didn't believe it could pay the bills. So I went with a stable job."
Helen nodded. "I see. So what brought you back to painting now?"
"I never really left it. I just… hid it in the corners of my life. But recently, I realized that chasing safety while giving up your dreams feels like a slow kind of dying."
Another girl muttered, "Well, that's easy for you to say now that you have a stable job. I still have to fight with my parents just to attend two art workshops a year."
Mary paused, then answered gently, "You might be right. But the fear of not starting—that's the real trap. I used to think I didn't have the time. But when I finally made the leap, I discovered that time always finds a way when you're doing what you love."
Helen smiled. "True."
Then someone asked, "Hey, have you heard about Diana? I heard she's planning to move abroad."
Another voice responded with surprise, "Seriously? Diana and Yong? I didn't hear anything about that."
"No, just Diana. I think they had a fight. Maybe that's why."
Helen's expression shifted, her voice softer. "I feel bad for Yong. He's been by her side since college. Always supported her dreams."
Mary's curiosity piqued. "You all knew each other from college?"
"Yeah," Helen replied. "Me, Nicholas, Diana, and Yong. We all went to the same art school. Actually, Nicholas is the reason we joined this studio. He co-owns it, you know."
Mary was taken aback. "Really? I thought he only ran the gallery."
One of the girls laughed. "That's why half the girls are into him."
Another girl nudged her under the table, and both of them laughed.
Mary chuckled. "I see… Hey Helen, how long have Diana and Yong been together? Why aren't they married yet? Is Yong too proud or something?"
Helen quickly replied, "It's complicated. I'll tell you the full story another time. But he's not as proud as people think."
Mary looked down, a bit embarrassed. "I didn't mean it that way. You can't judge someone based on a few encounters."
"I know. I didn't take it that way."
"By the way, will you be at the studio this weekend?"
"No, I'm skipping this week."
"That's too bad… I was starting to feel like I finally had some art friends."
Helen touched her hand gently. "Anytime, dear. We can always meet outside too."
"Thanks. I'd love that."
On Saturday, Mary stepped into the art studio with a light heart. The moment she walked in, she spotted Nicholas near the entrance and smiled.
But before she could approach, a voice behind her whispered, "She's not here yet. Still trying to flirt her way in."
Mary froze.
The words hit her like ice down her spine. She understood exactly who the girl meant—and what she meant by it.
She offered Nicholas a faint smile, then turned away without waiting for small talk. Her steps were stiff, her hands trembled slightly as she unpacked her brushes in the corner of the room.