Chapter 2
It was already eleven PM, and the entire arts district had quieted down, with only the 24-hour convenience store on the corner still glowing. I placed the last tattoo needle back into the sterilization box, my fingers lingering on the steel surface for a few seconds.
What a fucking awful day.
The exhibition's success now seemed like a joke. Everyone had praised my work, saying my designs had "healing power," but ironically, I was the one who needed healing.
The doorbell suddenly chimed, and I looked up to see Mason's silhouette through the glass door.
His eyes sparkling with a certain light—the kind of light I'd once longed to see when he looked at me.
"Harper!" Mason burst through the door, completely oblivious to the exhaustion on my face. "I know it's late, but I couldn't help myself."
I managed a smile. "What's got you so excited?"
"It's Avery." His voice carried an almost reverent tenderness. "Harper, I've never felt like this before. She's like... she's like an angel. When she stood at your booth saying those things, I just knew she was different."
My hand gripped the disinfectant bottle tighter as I struggled to keep my voice steady. "She is pretty special."
"Yes! You see it too!" Mason paced back and forth in front of me like an excited child. "She understands art, understands the power of healing. And she's a doctor—we have common professional ideals, common goals. Harper, I think I've found my soulmate."
Each word felt like a needle piercing my heart.
"That's great." I turned to organize my tools, not wanting him to see my expression.
"Harper, this is where I need your help." Mason moved closer, his voice becoming earnest.
My hand froze mid-air.
"I have to see her again." He grabbed my shoulders, his eyes pleading. "You're my most trusted friend. Only you can help me pull this off. What kind of encounter do you think would work?"
What I want is for you to never see her again.
But I heard myself say, "What kind of encounter do you want?"
"Just... natural contact. Maybe at the hospital café? She must go there regularly. Or anywhere she might show up." Mason's eyes gleamed with anticipation. "You always know how to arrange these things."
I took a deep breath. Is this what my ten years have been worth? Arranging his life, solving his problems, and now helping him chase another woman?
"Okay. I'll figure something out."
"Really? Harper, you're amazing!" Mason hugged me excitedly—that casual, brotherly kind of hug. "I knew I could count on you."
After he left, I sat alone in my studio, surrounded by my carefully arranged artworks and equipment. This place had once been my pride; now it felt like a prison.
You're such a damn fool, Harper Cross.
The next afternoon, I stood in the corner of the hospital café, watching my carefully orchestrated "chance encounter" about to unfold. I'd told Avery in advance that a "friend" would be coming to the café to talk with her about art therapy projects, and she'd readily agreed.
Now here I was, hiding like some damn voyeur, waiting to watch my heart get completely shredded.
Avery appeared right on time, wearing a light blue sweater with her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. She looked so perfect, so fitting for everyone's idea of the ideal "doctor's girlfriend."
"Avery?" Mason's voice carried from the café entrance. He wore a crisp white shirt, looking handsome and professional.
"Mason!" Avery waved, "Harper said you're interested in art therapy?"
"Yes." Mason sat across from her, his voice so gentle it made me want to puke. "I think art can heal souls, just like... just like your smile."
He's never said those words to me.
I watched them chat, watched Mason display a charming side of himself I'd never seen. He leaned in to listen, his gaze focused. This man, this man I'd known for ten years, could actually be this gentle, this romantic.
"Tattoo designs are really interesting," Avery said. "Harper's work has this special energy."
"She's definitely talented." Mason nodded, but his attention was completely on Avery. "But I think the most beautiful art is right in front of me."
I quietly slipped out of the café, my chest feeling like someone was squeezing it with both hands. Every step down the hallway felt impossibly heavy, the nurses' chatter becoming a buzzing noise.
This is your value, Harper. The perfect matchmaker. Helping others find love while you remain the forgotten friend.
Back at the studio, I collapsed directly into my chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the tattoo design sketches on my walls—those works that had once made me proud now seemed to have lost all meaning.
A knock at the door interrupted my self-pity.
I looked up to see a strange man standing outside. Tall build, dark hair, holding a vintage camera. He was the same person I'd noticed yesterday, observing me from the photography studio across the hall.
"I'm Blake Torres, photographer." He entered with a quiet confidence. "Yesterday I saw your work, and... your expression. True artists always create their most beautiful pieces in pain."
I looked at him warily. "What do you want?"
"I want to photograph you at work." Blake approached my display wall, carefully observing the tattoo designs. "These pieces showcase the true beauty of tattoo art, but few people can capture the story behind the creator."
"You don't know me," my voice sounded more hoarse than expected. "How do you know I need this?"
Blake turned to look at me, his gaze direct and sincere. "Because I'm an artist too. I know what it feels like to be overlooked, what it's like to seek recognition in the wrong places."
"What do you want to shoot?" I tried to stay calm, but my resolve was already wavering.
"Your work process. The creation process of tattoo art. And... the real you." Blake pulled a portfolio from his backpack and handed it to me. "This is my artist series shot in New York."
I opened the portfolio and was immediately stunned by the photographs inside. Each one captured the focused expression of artists during creation, that pure, undisturbed state of artistic flow. Not those pretentious posed shots, but real, soulful moments.
"Why did you come back to Denver?" I asked.
"Because there's too much fake art in New York." Blake sat in the chair across from me.
He pointed to one of the designs on my wall. "Your work has soul. Yesterday at the exhibition, everyone was praising your technique, but what I saw was emotion. Pain, longing, hope... it's all there in your lines."
"I..." I paused. "I agree to the shoot. But I'm emotionally all over the place right now."
"Whenever you're ready." Blake stood up. "I'm right across the street, waiting whenever you are."
As he reached the door, he looked back at me. "Harper, your art deserves to be seen. Not as someone's friend, but as Harper Cross herself."
After the door closed, my phone buzzed. A message from Mason:
"Harper! Today's café meeting was perfect! Avery agreed to go to a movie with me this weekend. Thanks for your help—you're the best friend in the world."
I stared at the screen, then looked toward the lit windows of the photography studio across the street.
Maybe it's time to stop being a supporting character in other people's lives.
But even thinking this, my heart still ached from Mason's happiness. Ten years of feelings wouldn't disappear in a single day, even with someone like Blake appearing, even as I began to recognize my own worth.
