It wasn't a surprise that Lydia would be leaving Beacon Hills earlier than everybody else She was Lydia Martin, of course she graduated earlier. Since Beacon Hills was quieter than she had ever seen it, she didn't hesitate to pack her bags and move to Boston to attend MIT. Her parents stilled lived in Beacon Hills and there was no reason to lose touch with her friends from high school.
But then Boston came and she was so overwhelmed and there was always so much to do and she felt like coming home less and less every holiday. Her Banshee powers seemed more at ease in Boston, no supernatural energy to fuel them there. Eventually her parents decided to leave Beacon Hills to travel around the world, so as the years passed, her friends from high school became a simple fond memory to her.
After a master's degree and two doctorates, Lydia decided to take some time off. Not that she didn't love being a mathematician, but life was getting a little boring in there. Her love life was nowhere near interesting and she hadn't made friends outside of her research team.
She was leading a quiet life, compared to what high school was for her. But she missed it so much. Every now and then she'd remember all the torment and the mess and those damn werewolves back at Beacon Hills. More than once she considered giving Scott a call, but it had been so long without so much as a hello, she probably wouldn't even recognize who her friends had become.
She was sitting at a little cafe near Central Park. It was a Saturday afternoon, she was still deciding if she wanted to break up with the guy she was seeing, he was a little annoying and Lydia just felt they didn't really match. Maybe they did, maybe she was overreacting. He was nice, he treated her right. But she never held her breath just to the thought of seeing him, never looked forward to being with him. It just lacked magic.
She brushed those thoughts out of her head for the moment, and headed out of the cafe. At a table by the door, something caught her eye. It was her face in a pamphlet. Not a photograph, a painting. What the hell was Lydia's face doing in a pamphlet in a common cafe? In a second look, she realized it was a promotion for an art exhibition at a nearby gallery, maybe two streets down from where she was. She was starting to get mad. Who on earth would paint a portrait of her, and worse, display it on New York City without her knowing it? She barely finished reading the entire pamphlet and started walking towards the gallery. Maybe it was some guy she went out with during college, she dated quite a few artists while in Boston, maybe one of them painted her picture. Just the thought of that was creepy.
The gallery was small, just a tiny door with a sign, announcing the presence of the gallery. They were on their opening hours, so Lydia entered without delay. On the entrance, there was a larger version of pamphlet in exhibit.
"Oh my God." She whispered.
The gallery was small, but there were two or three people admiring the artwork. The paintings were simple, a red ball of yarn entwined in a hand and a dimly lit motel room. It didn't really make sense, and the paintings didn't have anything that connected them, visually.
For a moment, Lydia recognized one of them. It was an empty locker room, bathed by the sun light. It was simple, yet calm. And she knew those lockers, they were from Beacon Hills High. And there was only one person she could think of.
Stiles.
Now it made sense. The locker room, the yarn. Moments he had with her. She knew about his crush, but she always assumed he moved on after high school. She hadn't thought about him in ages. He deserved an ass kicking for the creepy part, but no matter how strange it felt, she was happy to know she still thought about her, even after all those years. Maybe things were different now, maybe they could try going out It didn't work back then, but maybe they were really meant to be. Her heart raced just to think about it. Seeing Stiles, so many years later. She doubted he had changed a bit. Probably still sarcastic, goofy as ever. But that's what she liked about him.
She never knew about this side of him. Stiles, the artist. She knew he could draw brilliantly, but she couldn't see him as a famous artist in New York. She assumed he was going to follow his father's footsteps, somewhere on the police force. Maybe a detective, not exactly in a small town guy. Even FBI, Stiles was clever, he would be a great agent. But she tried imagining him today, clothes stained with paint, in a big loft in the city. And she had no problem picturing her with him. Winning a fields medal by his side, like he promised back in high school in her prom.
By the time she came back to reality, she was in front of the last painting, her portrait. She couldn't help but smile.
"...as this was the last. Among the entire exhibition, this was the hardest to find. There aren't many portraits in his collection." A man, possibly the curator was explaining to a group. "Yet, this is my favorite work."
Lydia smiled. Maybe he would be here tonight, it was his exhibition after all.
"Excuse me," she said to the curator, "but who is this? The girl."
The curator turned to her, yet, still watching the painting.
"This is the artist's high school sweetheart. We don't know her name, but the whole exhibition is based on her. His experiences with her. This exhibition is his personal work. Paintings that his father keeps mostly at the family home, in California. Artwork from his entire career."
"Since the beginning of his career, while still in college, she was a recurring theme. Usually in a more subtle way, but still. I'm not sure if you are familiar with his work, but his first collection was a study of wolves, most of them sketches. Even then, sometimes, you could see her eyes in the wolves."
"I didn't know."
"Well, yes. His work caught the attention of the art community when he was very young. Natural talent, obviously."
"They are beautiful." She whispered.
"Yes, they are."
"I'm sorry, but is there any way I could contact him? I mean, does he still lives in New York?"
The man looked at her for a moment, and she could tell he recognized her. He was speechless for a minute.
"It's you." he said, quietly.
"Yeah, it's me. Where is he, where is Stiles?" She repeated, impatient.
"Oh, I'm sorry. He was in a car crash two years ago. He died, unfortunately."
