Page 64 of The Bittersweet Bond

This had been Milka’s idea—an exhibition in a trendy art district that she claimed was “an absolute hidden gem.” Evin hadn’t been particularly excited about it, but as always, Milka had a way of convincing people to do things they’d normally avoid.

And today, Evin was the victim of her persuasive skills.

Now, she found herself drifting through a space filled with canvases and sculptures while Milka chatted with a group of people. The exhibition was lively, packed with visitors dressed to impress, exchanging profound thoughts in hushed yet performative tones. Evin moved through the rooms, observing the artwork and trying not to let the atmosphere get to her.

Shestopped in front of a large painting, where bold, almost aggressive colors clashed and bled into one another, dominating the space. The shapes were raw, the emotions unfiltered. It spoke to her. The rawness of it made her pause, its energy almost electric.

“Kind of dramatic, don’t you think?”

The voice came unexpectedly—calm, confident, unbothered.

Evin turned her head and found a young man standing beside her, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the painting. His expression was unreadable—a mix of composure and the slightest trace of amusement.

“Dramatic?” She hesitated, feeling momentarily caught, as if he had pulled the thought straight from her head. “Maybe... but it feels authentic.”

He tilted his head slightly, considering her response. “Interesting. Most people here would probably disagree. They’re looking for perfection. For beauty.” He said it without arrogance, but there was an undertone to his voice that piqued her curiosity. Unlike most visitors, who seemed intent on proving how cultured they were, he exuded a relaxed self-assurance.

“What makes it feel... authentic to you?” he asked, finally looking at her. His gaze was steady, almost disarming, yet there was something challenging about it, too.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s raw. It doesn’t try to be beautiful.” She wasn’t sure why she was saying this, but there was an ease in his presence that made her want to be honest.

As she stood there, still staring at the painting, she realized it wasn’t just the art that unsettled her—it was the way the stranger watched her, as if peeling back layers she wasn’t sure she wanted to expose.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips—small, almost imperceptible, but present in his eyes.

“Most people here wouldn't see it that way.” He mused.

Evin wasn’t sure if it was the art or the way he was looking at her, but he stirred her curiosity. There was something about him—a quiet intensity that felt both calming and unpredictable at the same time.

“Perfection is boring,” she said, then caught herself.Except in ballet.“Itdoesn’t leave anything to hold on to.”

He hummed in response, as if turning her words over in his mind. “Maybe you’re right.”

Then, finally, he turned toward her fully, meeting her gaze head-on. His presence was oddly grounding. She couldn’t tell if it was his words or the way he carried himself, but something about him intrigued her.

“And you?” she asked. “Do you like perfection?”

„Depends on what we’re talking about.“ He smirked, a slow, knowing curve of his lips.

“Perfection is predictable. I prefer what keeps you guessing.”

She couldn’t tell if he really meant it or if he was just playing the game—just another person trying to leave an impression. But somehow, it didn’t matter. It flowed naturally, without either of them needing to steer it.

Before she could respond, voices called out from the other side of the room. A few people waved in his direction. He turned briefly, nodding toward them.

"I need to go," he said. With a slight nod, he added, "Looks like we’ll have to continue this another time."

She watched as he slipped into the crowd—dressed in all black, his style understated yet deliberate.

His features were sharp and symmetrical—almost too perfect. The kind of face you’d remember, but wouldn’t necessarily trust. There was a stillness in him, a control that felt… unreadable.

A faint gleam from the chain around his neck caught the dim light, accented by rings and bracelets that gave him a quiet, effortless edge. Nothing about him felt random; every detail seemed carefully chosen, as if meant to obscure just as much as it revealed.

Then he was gone, swallowed by the shifting bodies, leaving no trace behind.

Evin remained in front of the painting, still unsure if the encounter had been real.

Milka appeared beside her with a half-smile. "Tell me you at least got his name."

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