Page 65 of The Spark

My art.

Not tucked in the background. Not crowding someone else’s spotlight. It was front and center—framed, illuminated, seen.

People moved from canvas to canvas. Some paused. Others took photos. A few just stood silently, letting the pieces speak for themselves.

I stood still, nearly overwhelmed by it all.

This moment was everything I’d fought for. The hours sketching in dim lighting, freelancing jobs with barely enough to pay rent, commissions that went unpaid. Doubting myself. Questioning my talent. All of that led me here.

And yet… Something still felt… off.

It wasn’t just nerves. I’d worn those before. This was deeper. A hollow kind of ache tucked just beneath my ribs.

I tugged at the hem of my silk emerald dress—long, with a high slit that kissed the top of my thigh. I’d slicked my hair into a crown of braids and paired it with gold hoops and nude heels. Simple, elegant, me.

Stephanie, my girl from art school, had flown in from Chattanooga just to be here. She’d cried when she saw my name on the center wall beside the gallery title.

Cocoa brown skin glowing under the lights, her red braids piled high in a bun that made her look like royalty in glasses. She wore a body-hugging dress that showed off every soft curve, a designer tote on her shoulder like she didn’t come to play.

“I always knew this would happen,” she whispered earlier, hugging me so tight I could barely breathe. “Your art got soul, Amaya. It always did.”

My parents were here too. Daddy in a dark brown suit, pacing like he wanted to fix something even though nothing was broken. Mama had on a deep plum wrap dress and clutched her small gold clutch like she couldn’t believe any of it was real.

“I’m so proud of you,” she’d said earlier. Her eyes had glossed over. “You belong here, baby.”

Even Deirdre had hugged me, tight and sincere. “This is just the beginning,” she said, eyes darting across the room. “This crowd? They’re eating it up. I’ve already had three curators ask about you. If tonight goes how I think it’s going to go—” She paused, squinting across the space. “Wait—Raj is here. Go, be great. I’ll circle back in a few.”

And then I was alone again. Standing in front of the piece that changed everything.

The mosaic.

A man carved in fragments—each tile a glimpse into the complexities I had tried to avoid.

His hands, rendered with careful detail—capable and tender.

His mouth, half-smiling, half-guarded—a man who wanted to speak but rarely did.

His chest, massive and warm, but split down the middle with gold threading the brokenness together.

It was him.

I told myself it was art. That it could’ve been anyone but art doesn’t lie and when I looked at that mosaic… all I saw was Amir.

I blinked, trying to center myself, when I felt it. A shift in the atmosphere. Like gravity had changed direction. I turned my head, and there he was.

Amir stood near the entrance, dressed in all black. Crisp button-down, dark slacks, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the ink on his forearms. His beard was shaped to perfection, his locs gone—just a fresh, clean cut and the same smoldering eyes that always made me feel too seen.

He didn’t move.

Neither did I.

And in that frozen silence between us, I knew it was all still there.

The ache. The want. The heartbreak.

The fucking love. But I couldn’t do anything with it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. A voice beside me broke the trance.

“Damn. Seeing it in person is different.”

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