Page 20 of Falling For My Best Friend's Brother

I didn’t mind the smell of paint, sharp and chemical. I’ve grown accustomed to having it on my skin. It felt clammy and itchy and sometimes it got into places it had no business in, but it was a welcome addition to my madness.

Grabbing a sponge, I soaked it in blue paint and dabbed it on the canvas. My favorite K-pop band, Stray Kids, played in the background on my iPad. I mouthed the English lyrics as I worked and hummed the Korean parts.

It didn’t take long until I was completely immersed in the painting and deaf to the outside world. In my head, a destination began to form, and I chased it with every stroke of my brush as the seconds passed, until my hands felt heavy, and my knees almost gave way. But I didn’t stop. The pain was one method to my madness. I needed to feel some sort of discomfort, to take myself out of my mental comfort zone if I wanted to create anything spectacular.

Hours passed. My playlist ended. My arms were completely covered in paint. My hands kept working as my lips moved unconsciously. It was all coming together. I poured every single emotion I felt onto the canvas as whirlwinds of bright and dark colors mixed together in one massive thunderstorm.

I didn’t even notice Knox leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, until I heard his voice, sharp and unexpected. “Hmm.”

“How long have you been standing there?” I asked, turning to face him, my heart skipping a beat as I realized he’d been watching me. Had I left my door open? I didn’t remember.

“Long enough to see you talk to yourself like a crazy person,” he replied.

I rolled my eyes, turning back to the painting. “I wasn’t talking to myself. I was… thinking out loud.”

“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

I ignored him, my focus already drifting back to the canvas. The colors—bold, aggressive, almost chaotic—were a reflection of everything I’d been feeling lately. Fear, uncertainty, the overwhelming sense of not being good enough. It was all there, splattered across the canvas in a mess of blues, fuchsias, and blacks.

“What is it supposed to be?” Knox asked, crossing the room to get closer.

I wasn’t sure I wanted him in my space. He was so large and intimidating and, no doubt, he was ready to verbally attack me again.

Huffing, I crossed my arms. “Does it have to be anything? It’s abstract, Knox. It’s about expression, not representation.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So, it’s supposed to be… nothing?”

I shot him a glare, feeling the frustration build. “It’s whatever you see in it. That’s the point.”

He shrugged, dismissing it too easily. “Looks like a mess to me.”

His words stung more than I cared to admit, but I forced myself to stay calm. I would not let Knox get under my skin. Not this time.

“You wouldn’t understand,” I muttered, more to myself than to him. Why would he? He was perfect. Responsible, hardworking, intelligent. He had a clear vision, and he went after it. No one would ever look at him and say he was lost or that his achievements in life were shallow because he was a nepo baby.

“Try me,” he said, and for once, his voice wasn’t mocking. It was quiet, almost curious.

I hesitated, my fingers tracing the dried paint on the canvas. How could I explain it to him? How could I put into words the way painting helped me make sense of the chaos inside my head?

“It’s…a way to work through things,” I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t always know what I’m feeling until I paint it. It’s like… sorting through a jumble of thoughts and emotions that don’t make sense until they’re on the canvas. Even then, sometimes it’s still a mess. But at least it’s a mess I can see.”

I could feel his eyes on me, studying me in a way that made me feel exposed. Vulnerable. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away from the painting.

“Why do you keep it a secret?” Knox asked, his voice still soft. “The painting, I mean. You never talk about it.”

I shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing people care about. Lindsay thinks it’s cool, but everyone else… I don’t know. They wouldn’t get it.”

“You think I wouldn’t get it?”

I glanced at him, wary of what he might say next. “Would you?”

He didn’t answer right away, and for a moment, I thought he might brush it off like he usually did. But instead, he surprised me.

“What are you working through with this one?” he asked, nodding toward the canvas.

I bit my lip, the question hanging in the air between us. Could I really tell him? Could I let him see the doubts, the fear, the mess that I usually kept hidden?

“Uncertainty, I guess,” I said finally. “Fear. Of what’s next, of not being good enough… of not having control.”

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