The Colour Of Hope

Vanessa's POV.

The sharp scent of turpentine and linseed oil clung to my fingers, no matter how many times I scrubbed them. As I stepped into the brightly lit gallery, a familiar wave of nervous energy settled in my chest.

The space was buzzing with life. High heels clicked against the polished floors, and the air hummed with conversation. People dressed in sleek suits and tailored dresses moved from painting to painting, wine glasses glinting in their hands. I tugged at the sleeve of my thrift-store blazer, the uneven hem brushing against my wrist. The sense of not belonging in this polished world pressed against me like a second skin.

My paintings hung on the far side of the room, five pieces grouped together on a stark white wall. They were abstract bursts of color—deep crimsons, shimmering golds, moody blues—that spoke to emotions I rarely shared aloud. To me, they were pieces of my soul, laid bare for strangers to judge.

I lingered by the snack table, nibbling on a cracker to distract myself as I watched people move around the gallery. Some paused at my work, tilting their heads as if trying to decipher a secret message. Others glanced briefly before moving on. Each person who didn’t linger left a hollow ache in my chest.

Emma’s voice broke through my spiral of doubt. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

I turned to see her weaving through the crowd, her dark curls bouncing with every step. She wore a red dress that hugged her figure and carried herself with an ease I envied.

“I’m hiding,” I said, half-joking.

Emma rolled her eyes. “You’re not hiding. You’re sabotaging. You should be over there,” she said, pointing toward my paintings, “talking to people. Letting them know who the artist is.”

“I wouldn’t even know what to say,” I muttered.

“How about, ‘Hi, I’m Vanessa Miller, and this is my art’? It’s not rocket science.”

I sighed, swirling the cheap wine in my glass. “I don’t know, Em. What if no one likes it? What if this was a mistake?”

Emma crossed her arms and fixed me with a stern look. “Do you remember what I told you when you got into this gala?”

I frowned, trying to recall.

“You earned this,” she said firmly. “Your work deserves to be here, and anyone who doesn’t see that is an idiot. Got it?”

I couldn’t help but smile at her unwavering confidence in me. “Got it.”

“Good. Now, stop moping and start mingling. If you don’t sell at least one painting tonight, I’m going to personally buy one just to prove a point.”

“Please don’t. I can’t handle the humiliation of my best friend being my only buyer.”

Emma laughed, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be around if you need me. But seriously, Vanessa—this is your night. Own it.”

As she disappeared into the crowd, I turned my gaze back to my paintings. A middle-aged couple stood in front of one of them, the woman’s head cocked to the side as if examining it from a new angle.

Summoning what little courage I had, I made my way over.

“Hi,” I said, my voice coming out softer than I intended.

The woman turned, her smile polite but curious. “Hello.”

“I’m Vanessa,” I said, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I’m the artist.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and she glanced back at the painting—a chaotic swirl of gold and red I’d titled Falling Forward. “Your work is very… evocative,” she said.

Her husband nodded, though he seemed less interested. “It’s certainly bold,” he added.

I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I settled for a quiet “Thank you.”

After a moment of awkward silence, they moved on, and I resisted the urge to sink into the floor.

The night dragged on in a blur of half-hearted compliments and forced smiles. By the time the crowd began to thin, my energy was completely drained. None of my paintings had sold, and my earlier optimism had crumbled into a pile of doubts.

I found Emma near the bar, chatting animatedly with a man in a navy suit. When she saw me, she excused herself and came over, her expression softening when she saw my face.

“Tough crowd?” she asked.

I nodded, setting my empty glass on a nearby table. “No sales, no offers, not even a business card exchange. Maybe I’m just not cut out for this.”

“Stop that,” she said sharply. “You’re an amazing artist, Vanessa. Sometimes these things just take time. Tonight

wasn’t your night, but that doesn’t mean the next one won’t be.”