Strings and Schemes

Chapter 21

I don't know if I feel vindicated or exposed.

Then I see it.

The Mirror.

A life-sized sculpture of her, fragmented. Split in two. One half is pristine, smooth, unblemished—perfect. The other half is cracked, raw, barely held together by silver wire, as if it's on the verge of collapsing but refuses to fall.

My throat tightens.

This is her. This is the war inside her.

And suddenly, I hate that I'm only seeing it like this. That she had to tear herself apart in stone and wire for me to get it.

Then I notice the final sculpture, placed at the very end of the exhibit.

My feet move before I can think.

The Final Piece – "You Saw Me".

A man, standing before a woman. His back turned to the audience.

But she looks forward. Straight ahead. The meaning settles in my chest like a weight I can't move.

This is us.

This is her telling me exactly what she needed—what she still needs. I stare at it for a long time, something breaking open inside me.

And then, behind me, a quiet voice: "You came."

Her voice is quieter than I expected. Almost careful, like she's still deciding if she wants me here or not.

I don't turn around right away. I keep looking at the sculpture. You Saw Me.

I don't know how to explain to her that it feels like my ribs have been cracked open, that every piece of her art has laid me bare. That I have never felt more understood and more ashamed all at once.

So instead, I just say, "Yeah."

It's stupid, inadequate. But it's the only thing I can get out.

A long silence stretches between us. I finally glance over my shoulder, and there she is. Standing in the low, dim glow of the gallery lights, looking at me like she's expecting something. Like she needs something.

Her arms are crossed, but it's not defiance. It's self-protection.

"You didn't text," she says, and I hear the quiet accusation in her voice.

"You didn't either," I counter.

Her jaw tightens. I know I'm being difficult, but I don't know how to not be. Not with her. Not when I've spent weeks stewing in this. In all the ways she remained scripted; most of which was my own fault for not seeing the blatant signs.

"You wrote a fucking song instead," she mutters.

I huff a short laugh. "Yeah, well. You made a fucking museum exhibit."

Something flickers in her expression—something small but sharp. "Not the same thing."

I finally turn to face her fully, crossing my arms. "Isn't it? I laid everything out in that song. Everything. And you stood here and chiseled it into stone."

Her mouth opens, then closes.

I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. "Raina, do you even realize what you've been doing?" I motion toward The Limo Scene, toward The Tightrope, toward The Mirror. "You've spent so much time trying to figure yourself out, trying to choose which version of you to be, that you never even stopped to ask if I wanted to be part of that choice."

Her eyes flash, defences snapping into place. "That's not fair—"

"It is fair." My voice is softer now, but insistent. "I see you, Raina. I've always seen you. But you don't let me. You don't let anyone."