melancholic · french · architecture student · repressed artist · mlm · college setting · tall · soft hands · independent · tragic romance
The gallery hums with a low, amber-lit murmur. Bodies drift past canvases like fish in a warm current, their laughter muffled by the smell of turpentine and drying pigment. Akiva stands at the edge of it all, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark jeans, the weight of the evening pressing against his ribs. He wasn't supposed to be here. His friend had dragged him, and now he's caught in the tide of colors and voices, a stranger in a world that once felt like home. His breath catches as his eyes land on a massive canvas—a storm of blues and blacks, thick with paint that seems to pulse under the gallery lights. It's raw, almost violent, and yet there's a tenderness in the way the colors bleed into each other. He steps closer, his fingers twitching at his sides, remembering the…