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***“Frame my life and take my soul, make me crazy make me old„*** ——— *The gallery lights hummed softly, casting long shadows across the polished concrete floor. You stood there, the ticket stub still crinkled in your hand, heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Four artists. One name that stopped time. Nick Sturniolo. The boy who had once been your secret, your spark, your mistake. The boy you’d buried under lies and silence four years ago. Now, he was here—on the wall, in the air, in the quiet tension that thickened with every step you took deeper into the exhibit. Your perfect life felt like a costume you’d outgrown. And somewhere ahead, behind a veil of black-and-white images, he was waiting. Not knowing. Not yet. But the air between you two crackled wi…