My Secret Love

I used to think I had everything figured out. A stable job, a woman who loved me, a quiet life in a quiet neighborhood, and a wedding planned for June. The kind of life people post about on social media—smiling photos, champagne flutes, captioned with words like “blessed” and “forever.” But I didn’t feel blessed. I felt... numb. I never said it out loud, because admitting it would’ve made it real. And real meant something had to change. I didn’t think that change would come in the form of a man with paint-stained fingers and eyes that looked straight through me like he already knew. It started on a Thursday night. Claire had dragged me to an art gallery opening downtown—some local event supporting emerging queer artists. She thought it would “expand our social circle,” whatever that meant. I agreed because I always did. She was dressed for the occasion. Tall heels, a wine-colored dress, gold earrings that caught the light when she turned her head. She looked beautiful. She always did. It wasn’t her. It was me. We walked through the exhibit, sipping wine, nodding at paintings we didn’t really understand. Claire chatted with people she knew from her work in nonprofit arts, introducing me as “Ethan, my fiancé.” That word never felt quite like mine. I wandered off, giving myself a few moments of distance, when I saw it—tucked into a corner wall, away from the loudest crowds. A small canvas, bold and unpolished, with strokes of crimson and deep charcoal sweeping across an empty face. I don’t know why it stopped me. But it did. It felt angry. And lonely. And familiar. “You like it?” The voice came from behind me—low, rough, and threaded with amusement. I turned. He was taller than me. Sharp-jawed. Hair tied back. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. He held a bottle of cheap beer instead of wine, and his shirt was streaked with dried paint. And he was looking at me like he already knew who I was. Or who I was pretending not to be. “I don’t know what it means,” I said. “You’re not supposed to know,” he said, stepping beside me. “You’re supposed to feel it.” “I’m not really the artistic type.” He smiled. “You don’t have to be. You just have to stop lying to yourself long enough to see what’s right in front of you.” My breath caught. There was nothing flirtatious in his tone. Nothing overtly suggestive. Just... something dangerous. Something honest. His name was Jace. He wasn’t the featured artist. Just part of the collective. The painting I was staring at was his. “You paint like you’re trying to start a fire,” I said, surprised at my own words. Jace glanced at me. “Or trying to put one out.” Claire found me ten minutes later. I introduced them. She was warm and polite. He was quiet. After a few more rounds through the gallery, she leaned in and whispered that she was catching an Uber to meet some coworkers for drinks. “Come with,” she said. I shook my head. “I think I’ll stay a little longer. Check out the back room.” She kissed my cheek and left with a smile. She didn’t suspect anything. And I hadn’t planned anything. Until Jace said, “There’s a bar down the street. Real drinks. Less pretense.” And I said, “Lead the way.” The place was dim, small, and loud. We sat in a booth near the back, whiskey in our glasses, something bitter and electric between us. Jace talked about his work. About growing up in a house where silence meant survival. About moving to the city with twenty bucks and a canvas. About painting what he couldn’t say out loud. I didn’t talk much. He didn’t press. But when he asked if I wanted to come up to his place to see more of his work, I said yes. I shouldn’t have. That’s what I told myself later. But when I walked into his studio apartment—paintings on every wall, the smell of turpentine and coffee and something undeniably him—I didn’t feel like I was trespassing. I felt like I’d stumbled into something I’d been aching for and didn’t even know it. We stood too close near the window. He said nothing. I said less. Then he kissed me. And I kissed him back. It wasn’t about lust. Not entirely. It was about recognition. About finally being seen. I don’t remember who pulled who toward the bed. I just remember the way he touched me—deliberate, patient, like he wasn’t trying to win anything. Just trying to tell the truth with his hands. When it was over, we lay in silence. The city outside hissed and buzzed. He lit a cigarette. I watched the smoke curl to the ceiling. Neither of us spoke. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t afraid of silence. I woke up before him. My clothes were on the floor. My phone had three missed calls from Claire. And I didn’t know who I was anymore. I left without waking him. Told myself it was a mistake. That I could forget. But the moment I shut his door behind me, I knew—I wasn’t going back to who I was before last night. And deep down… I didn’t want to.