Inspire.

The buzz of the city was barely audible through the walls of glass; instead, the hum of people milling across the floors was the primary source of background noise. She preferred it this way, preferred to smile politely at passerby then to travel head down, against the sidewalk traffic and the brisk beginnings of spring.

The gallery was not packed, as it had been in previous hours, but it nevertheless housed a steady flow of audiences. They popped in and out, through and around in circles. She smiled to herself as a man passed in front of her, recognizing him from the last three or four rounds he had done of the show. She could hear a group approaching from her right, and she looked down at the ground fleetingly before squaring her chin.

“This is our youngest artist,” a gruff looking man said, gesturing wildly in her direction. The heels of her shoes met with a soft clack, and she smiled mildly at the cluster of five or six people gathered around him. “Evelyn Forrester, a Junior from St. John’s University in Queens.”

“Fabulous,” one of the onlookers murmured, breaking from the group to approach her work. Others peeled off at various intervals, leaning closely to inspect the brush strokes, the slightest imperfection of a loose bristle, or a spark of spray paint left behind.

“How you holding up?” he asked the girl, coughing roughly to the side as she swallowed.

“It’s nerve wracking,” she confessed slowly, “but satisfying.” He chuckled.

“You’ve got real talent, kid,” he said, patting her awkwardly across the back. “You’ll get bullshit from everyone, but you’ll go places regardless.” She smiled as his raw attempt at motivational speaking, folding her hands in front of her body in a neat ‘V’. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, silently watching the group patrol the wall like silent vultures. Occasional words were exchanged, nods traded, and eventually they moved on, thanking her briefly before the man winked at her, leading them off to the left to explore around the corner.

The silence allowed her to breathe, and she turned to face her own wall, her work, her last five months of pride and tears. She smiled, only briefly, as her eyes lingered on one piece in particular.

It resided in the center, providing the peak in the rise and fall of the surrounding art. The gentle blue gradated towards a darker hue, creating the background on the enlarged canvas. In the center was a star, a carefully rendered spark in the nighttime, exploding with purple and yellow glares. They drained towards the bottom, collecting in a pool beneath that reflected the glow in a pair of startlingly brown eyes.

She sighed, looking down at her heels. They scuffed the floor gently, and she was mesmerized by the light scratch they produced on the floor.

“Are these yours?”

She looked up, slightly shocked to see a man standing beside her. She recognized him immediately, recognized the shock of red hair that sat unkempt on his head, his sharp jawline that flowed smoothly towards his neck. He looked down at her, his eyes sparkling with an unknown enjoyment as he smiled, and she returned it uneasily, her fingers twisting together with a slight anxiety.

“Yes,” she responded simply, and he nodded, turning his head back to the wall. She watched his eyes dart between each piece.

“These are beautiful,” he murmured, leaning forward to examine the centermost painting. Her breath hitched painfully in her throat, his brow furrowing a minuscule amount, yet enough to be observed. Seconds clicked past like days as he perceived the one painting, and even as he leaned away from it some minutes later, his eyes did not leave the image.

“How old are you?” he asked finally, turning to look at her curiously.

“Twenty,” she answered gently, looking at him briefly before glancing back towards the large frame. He followed her gaze, and a quiet contemplation fell between them. A soft exhalation claimed the silence, and she blinked, returning her eyes to his direction.

“You lost someone,” he said, a simple statement of such overwhelming truth that it nearly brought tears to her eyes. She immediately looked down, biting her lip, and he hummed anxiously.

“Oh, no, oh God, don’t...I’m sorry,” he apologized quickly, and she shook her head, once, twice, until his incoherencies vanished easily once again into silence. He didn’t try to reach out to her, which she was grateful for. He stood there until she looked up, and when she did, he shifted his gaze guiltily to the painting on the wall. She hadn’t meant to make him feel uncomfortable, so she amended it as best as she knew she could.

“My sister,” she said softly, and he shifted his weight as he turned to look at her once more. “In January.”

“Was she young?” he asked, and she nodded, twisting her mouth to the side and biting the inside of her cheek.

“Harrowingly so,” she responded, clearing her throat cautiously. “She used to like your band,” she added shyly, and he looked vaguely surprised.

“You know who I am?”

“I’ve seen pictures,” she explained, “Felix had them tacked up all around her walls.” She smiled softly at the memory, and he gazed at her, a twinge of sadness evident in his eyes.

“She liked your song...what was it.” She frowned to herself, willing her memory to jog the simple word she was searching for. He was almost apprehensive to hear her self-asked answer, and when she finally spoke, he felt a tug at his chest.

“Sleep.”

Her eyes were on the painting again, and she sighed. “That’s what I was going to name it, you know,” she told him, looking down at her chipping fingernails. “Sleep.”

“But you didn’t?”

She looked up, finding his probing eyes and shaking her head. “No,” she said, a slightly thoughtful edge to her tone. “Because she’s not asleep. She’s just...a star.”

“Stars,” he said, and she nodded as they both turned back to the painting. It seemed to glow a just a bit more, just a bit brighter, and she smiled to herself.

Stars.