Page 65 of Loving Lauren
“Do you think...” Lauren paused, clearly choosing their words carefully. “Do you think there’s any chance we could be real friends again? Not just these careful coffee shop interactions, but actual friends? I don’t want to push or pressure you, and I’m not going anywhere, even if the answer is no.”
Sierra studied their face, looking for any sign of ulterior motives or hidden expectations. All she saw was genuine hope mixed with vulnerability.
“I think that friendship is something you build, not something you declare. So far, these Tuesday mornings have been good. Let’s see where it goes from here.”
Lauren’s smile was small but radiant. “I can work with that.”
As Sierra walked home, she realized something had shifted. She didn’t know what it meant yet, but the future felt like something other than survival. Maybe even something like possibility, which terrified her but also made her happy.
Chapter 40
Sierra’s hands were trembling as she arranged supplies around the art room at the community center. The idea for this new class had been growing in her mind ever since her viral talk, a dedicated space for healing through creativity, where grief, loss, heartbreak, and trauma could be translated into color and form and whatever shape they needed to take. She arranged each paintbrush with almost ritualistic care, as if she were preparing for something sacred.
Her regular students started filtering in first, offering warm smiles and comfortable small talk as they claimed their usual spots. But there were several new faces, too, people who’d obviously heard about the class through word of mouth or social media. They entered more tentatively, scanning the room with the careful wariness of people who weren’t sure what they were signing up for but knew they needed something. The turnout was better than she’d dared to hope for, and Sierra felt her chest swell with a cautious, fragile kind of pride.
She was walking toward the door to close it and officially begin when she suddenly froze mid-step.
Lauren stood in the doorway, bundled up in a thick cable-knit sweater that made them look smaller somehow, their cheeks pink from the cold. When they spoke, their voice trembled.
“I hope this is okay. I think I could genuinely benefit from the class.”
Sierra’s heart did this stuttering little skip, and she stared for a beat too long before forcing herself to step aside and open the door wider. Lauren walked in quietly, and Sierra noticed some of her regular students exchanging knowing glances. They recognized the person whose absence had been written all over Sierra’s art for months.
Trying to keep her voice steady and professional, Sierra addressed the full room.
“We all carry pain.” Her eyes avoided Lauren’s section of the room. “Sometimes it’s fresh and raw and feels like it might kill us. Sometimes it’s been with us so long it feels like part of our basic anatomy. But that pain has to go somewhere, right? It can’t live inside us forever without destroying us, and art gives it a safe place to land.”
She paused, letting her words settle, then continued. “I want you to think about one of the hardest moments in your life. You don’t need to draw a literal scene or a recognizable face. Just try to capture the feeling itself. Let it come through however it needs to... abstract, realistic, whatever feels right.”
The room filled with the sounds of pencils scratching against paper and brushes moving across canvas. Sierra walked among her students, offering gentle guidance here and there. One woman was sketching what looked like a cemetery under storm clouds. A young man was drawing a cracked photograph with precise lines. Some sat motionless, staring at blank pages with obvious frustration.
“Don’t overthink it. Just draw what you feel. It doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else.”
She deliberately avoided Lauren’s table, staying mostly at the front of the room where she felt safer.
After about forty-five minutes, Sierra called for attention. “Would anyone feel comfortable sharing what they created? No pressure at all, but sometimes talking about our art can be part of the healing process.”
An older woman with silver hair raised her hand tentatively. “I drew my heart.” She stood and held up her paper so others could see. “There’s this piece missing right here. My mom passed away from cancer last year, and I still don’t know how to fill the empty space where she used to be.”
Sierra swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. “That’s incredibly beautiful and honest. Thank you for sharing that with us.”
Lauren stood up before Sierra could prepare herself.
“This is me.” They held up a jagged drawing of a lone figure hunched on concrete steps beneath a sky that seemed to collapse in on itself. Their voice wavered. “I was sixteen years old. My parents kicked me out of the house because they couldn’t accept that I wasn’t the son they thought they’d raised. I didn’t even know who I was yet, just that it wasn’t him.”
A tear slid down Lauren’s cheek, but they kept going. “I buried all that pain so deep I convinced myself it was gone. I used it as fuel to prove I was untouchable. But it never left. That terrified kid still shows up—in how I love, in how I... run, when it gets hard.”
Then they looked at Sierra. Directly.
“I’m trying to learn how to stay.”
The words hit Sierra like a fist to the chest. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to tilt. She wasn’t just hearing Lauren’s confession—she was watching her students witness it, too. Every rawpiece of their history, laid bare in the space she’d carved as her sanctuary. Pride swelled in her chest, tangled with fear and something dangerously close to love.
She forced herself to breathe, fingers tightening around the dry-erase marker she’d been holding as if it could anchor her. When she spoke, her voice came out steadier than she felt.
“That took so much courage. Thank you for trusting us with it.”
Lauren pressed their lips together, blinking hard, and sat back down.
