I used to believe love was a distraction. I had convinced myself that emotions were luxuries artists could not afford. At art school, the hallways smelled of wet paint and old canvas, a mixture of possibilities and failures, while students moved from one classroom to another, talking in hurried voices, their laughter echoing through the high ceilings. I kept my own thoughts quiet, tucked into sketchbooks and the tips of my brushes, never letting anyone see what stirred beneath my calm exterior.
My routine was simple but full. Morning classes began with the smell of turpentine and freshly brewed coffee. I would settle into my chair by the window, sketchpad open, pencils lined up, and spend hours capturing shapes, colors, shadows anything but people. Afternoons were reserved for practice, experimenting with textures and brushstrokes until my fingers ached and my eyes blurred. Evenings belonged to the city outside, where lights flickered like tiny stars scattered across streets and sidewalks, reminding me that the world kept moving whether I was part of it or not.
I had learned early on that emotions could be dangerous. Love, I believed, made people careless, weakened their focus, and left them vulnerable. Artists needed solitude and discipline, not distraction. I watched my classmates fall in and out of fleeting romances, laughing too loudly, crying too easily, and I would smile politely, nod, and keep walking. People sometimes mistook my composure for arrogance or indifference. I let them believe what they wanted. It was easier than explaining that I simply didn't need anyone.
To survive in the city and cover my expenses, I sometimes relied on charm when it mattered. A smile here, a witty remark there, a brief conversation with someone who thought they had significance. It was not love, only practical interaction a temporary exchange of attention for money, favors, or convenience. I reminded myself it was honest, and it worked.
That night, I went to the bar for noise, not companionship. The lights were dim, a muted haze from the neon signs outside, and the room buzzed with laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional sharp shout of someone making a point too loudly. I sat at a corner table, nursing a drink I hadn't wanted to order, pretending to read a book I had no intention of finishing. It was the kind of space where nobody noticed if you were alone, and that's exactly what I wanted.
Then I saw him.
He wasn't like anyone else in the room. He sat alone, casually confident, with a posture that suggested ease but not arrogance. His suit was neat, understated, yet somehow it made him stand out. The glass before him remained untouched, and he seemed completely aware of the room without being distracted by it. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he gave off the air of a man who had learned patience and the quiet power of observation.
Something inside me told me he would be easy.
I approached with the practiced charm I reserved for moments like this, leaning into the persona that promised amusement and intrigue. I smiled, laughed lightly at a remark he didn't make, tilted my head, and waited. He barely noticed me at first. When he finally did, his eyes met mine kind, calm, distant. As if I were a passing thought that had briefly caught his attention.
When he refused me, politely, without anger or condescension, something inside me fractured. I asked if he found me attractive. He said I was beautiful. And then he said he wasn't interested.
No one had ever said that to me before.
I laughed, masking the sting, turned away, and found another distraction. But later, outside in the cold night air, a stranger's grip on my wrist made panic rise in my chest. I tried to pull away, heart racing, and then he appeared beside me steady, convincing, familiar. Relief flooded me, though confusion tugged at my mind. I didn't even know his name.
"Everything okay?" he asked softly, but with authority, as if he owned the right to step in.
I nodded quickly, though my knees felt weak. He didn't wait for an explanation. He held my arm lightly, guiding me past the man who had startled me. It was as though he had always known I needed someone in that moment, someone steady. I ran toward him without thinking, a mixture of fear and trust swirling inside me.
We walked through the empty New York streets, the city unusually quiet, our footsteps echoing in the cool night. Streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement. I kept glancing at him, feeling an odd warmth that didn't make sense. He didn't speak much, only enough to make me feel safe. I realized I wanted to know everything about him already.
Finally, we reached my building. I turned to him. "Thank you... for helping me," I said, my voice softer than usual.
He looked at me, not smiling, not serious. Just... present. "You're welcome," he said, and I felt something in the tone that wasn't casual. Something that hinted at care.
I hesitated, then asked, "Can I... have your number? Just so I can thank you properly?"
He paused, looking away for a moment. Then he handed me a slip of paper. "Just to thank me?" he asked lightly.
"Just to thank you," I said. He nodded and walked away, leaving me with a pulse that wouldn't slow.
I didn't call.
At least, not right away.
I didn't know then that the hesitation, the unanswered thoughts, the lingering awareness of him walking away that night, would become the beginning of everything. Or that Mark the man who had stepped into my life so quietly was already carrying an ending inside him.
At the time, he was just a stranger who had looked at me and seen more than I had ever shown anyone.
And I hated how much I wanted to see him again.