William Turner University of Art and Music fell somewhere between mid-tier and top-tier Canadian institutions. It wasn’t the kind of place where students marched in sync like Swiss watches, but it wasn’t a university where professors taught just to survive until the first of the month either. It sat somewhere in between—with a strong emphasis on education but an even stronger one on developing various talents: singing, acting, drawing, sculpting. WTAM wanted to give the world artists, not just engineers and scientists stuck in rigid frameworks.

Lucy scribbled a few more distracted lines, then, realizing inspiration was a no-show, shut the sketchbook with a flourish. She tossed it into her backpack and pushed open the heavy glass doors, heading for the library to find inspiration (or more accurately, hide in a chair and take a nap). First, though, she needed food—she’d rushed out without breakfast.

Classes were in full swing, so to Lucy’s delight, there was no queue at the campus food station, which served hot meals at lunch and snacks in between. She bought a hamless sandwich and a chocolate bar—both of which she nearly dropped when she turned and bumped straight into someone.

She looked up to see the last face she wanted to deal with right now.

His name was Jonathan Martin—a perfectly average music student in height, looks, and build. His chestnut hair defied grooming and stuck out in every direction, and his thin-rimmed round glasses always slid down to the tip of his nose. The only things that stood out were his bright blue eyes—always twinkling and cheerful—and that wide, dazzling smile that could brighten anyone’s day.

Anyone but Lucy.

To her, that smile was just plain annoying.

And today was no different—while Jonathan radiated joy, she could barely keep her eyes open.

She walked past him without a word and sat down at one of the tables. His smile vanished, like a puppy denied attention. He sat across from her and opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand. He froze. She unwrapped the chocolate bar, took a bite, chewed, swallowed, then slowly nodded.

“You may speak. The sugar should prevent me from committing murder.”

They were like yin and yang—two completely opposite personalities who, by some cosmic fluke, hadn’t burned down the entire city yet. Jonathan: always-smiling optimist. Lucy: only smiled at sweets. They’d met a few weeks ago through the Lavoie siblings, and since then Jonathan had sort of forced his way into the tiny circle Lucy called “friends.”

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she replied, chewing another bite.

“How’s the mood after last night’s gaming?”

“What do you think?”

Jonathan chuckled and went to buy himself a sandwich. Lucy took the moment to give inspiration another shot, opening her sketchbook. He returned and started eating, knowing better than to interrupt her when she didn’t want to talk. Her hardbound sketchbook had taught him that lesson fast.

They ate in silence. From deep in the hallway, soft violin notes floated toward them—gentle as cherry blossom petals. Lucy’s pencil tapped the page in rhythm.

“No. 7: Lacrimosa, Mozart,” Jonathan intoned, reading the distant look in her eyes.

“Can you really guess every piece just from a few notes?” she asked flatly, sketching something.

He shrugged, brushing crumbs off his navy shirt. He adjusted his dark green tie with the little music note pin.

“Occupational hazard.” She didn’t react to his joke or smile; her face was as unreadable as ever, hidden beneath her shoulder-length, jagged auburn hair. “It’s like you with art—you see part of a painting and instantly know the artist. I hear a melody and I start hunting for the title and composer.”

“Our existence kind of depends on it,” she muttered, not looking up.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sounds being the scratch of her pencil and the distant violin. Lucy wasn’t one for long conversations. Silence didn’t bother her; she liked it. Jonathan, not so much.

“You free after classes today?” he asked suddenly, bursting her quiet bubble.

“That question never leads anywhere good…” she muttered, closing her sketchbook and glancing at him.

“Come on, I’m serious.” He leaned forward, chin resting on his hand. “Maybe we could all hang out—you, me, Tiff, Alan—go to a café or something?”

Lucy sighed heavily and set her pencil aside.

“One: it’s the start of the week—not party time. Two: I don’t have time.”

“You’ve been saying that for a month!”

“Because it’s true! The semester’s ending and I’m buried in projects with no inspiration.” She gestured at her sketchbook.

“Boooring,” he groaned theatrically, leaning back. “How about Friday?”

She gave him a pointed look.

“I have to turn in my final project by Saturday night. That’s the ultimate deadline.”

He clapped his hands, the sound echoing through the empty corridor.

“Perfect! I’ll help you finish the project and then you’ll have time!”

He reached for the sketchbook, but Lucy swept it away. Jonathan quickly withdrew and raised his hands defensively.

“My bad. I forgot—never touch an artist’s sketchbook without permission.”

Lucy nodded and packed up her things.

“Fast learner.”

She stood, and Jonathan followed.

“I’m heading to the library. But you can’t come, because I need peace and quiet—and you talk like a broken record, so the librarian will throw us both out.”

“Got it. I’ll go check if JJ finally made it to campus. Tiff messaged me from his phone—said he was still asleep. But try to find time, okay?” He smiled gently.

“Go study,” she muttered, waving him off.

Later that same day, after classes ended, Lucy stayed on campus. Friday marked the second and final deadline for submitting her spatial painting project, and it wasn’t until one of her lectures that she finally settled on a concept that fit the theme: in shape and likeness.

The campus offered several small art rooms that students could use if they signed up online. Aside from her, there was only one other person in the room. Lucy sat in the opposite corner and set up her workstation. She unfolded an easel, chose an A3 canvas, put on her headphones, and started her playlist.

All she had was a fleeting vision of what she wanted to portray. She clung to it, afraid it might vanish, though she knew the final result might differ completely from the original idea. She had to start at one point and reach another, but the path in between was always unknown.

This time was no different. She began sketching the first lines on the canvas, and time passed slowly. Every few minutes, she’d pause to step back and examine the progress from a distance. After dozens of minutes, the spontaneous lines began to take shape, gradually approaching the effect she was aiming for. When she finally felt satisfied, she set the pencil on the table beside her and stood to evaluate the sketch with a critical eye.

She planned to take a risk by combining the heavy paint layering of Anselm Kiefer with the masterful chiaroscuro technique of Caravaggio. Given the tight timeline, she didn’t have the strength or time to polish every detail. She’d make up for it in future pieces.

She yawned as her body reminded her that it had only received five hours of sleep and had been running on three coffees all day. Lucy decided to abandon the idea of continuing the painting that night, promising herself she’d really get down to it tomorrow. For now, she put away the easel and locked her canvas in one of the numbered storage lockers.

Outside the windows, it was already pitch dark, and she could almost feel the bitter cold seeping through the frames. The thought of going home—even after an entire day on campus—didn’t spark much joy. Her relationship with her aunt, whom she lived with, had been tense lately, which was why Lucy had started delaying her returns.

Knowing she still had half an hour until the bus arrived, she slowly made her way toward the cloakroom. On the way, she ran into two people she would’ve rather avoided.

Danneel Everett had been the rector of William Turner University for twenty years. She was an elegant woman with coal-black hair and eyes as light as spring grass. Beside her walked Jonathan, the two of them engaged in a lively conversation.

Before Lucy’s curiosity could kick in about what they were talking about, her survival instincts took over. She spun on her heel and headed in the opposite direction. It was hard, though, to go unnoticed in an empty corridor.

“Lucy, staying late again?” Everett’s voice stopped her in her tracks. Reluctantly, she approached them.

“You know how it is, ma’am—end of the semester, deadlines looming,” she replied. Everett, after all, taught the spatial painting class.

“You’ve got until Friday to turn it in. I hope you’ll make it.”

Lucy forced a smile and glanced at Jonathan, who was clearly enjoying the moment. She quickly looked for a way out of the awkwardness.

“I’m heading home. Goodbye.”

“Professor, is that all for now?” Jonathan asked once Lucy passed them.

Everett nodded, and the boy quickly caught up to her.

“You’ve only been here three weeks and you’re already causing trouble?” Lucy said as he matched her pace.

He gave an innocent shrug.
“We were talking about transferring my grades and getting credit for the semester,” he explained as they put on their coats.

“Your grades are that bad the rector had to personally intervene?” she scoffed, tugging her hat down over her ears.

“You could try being nice just once,” he muttered, mock-offended.

“I could. But I don’t feel like it,” she replied with brutal honesty.

“Come on—it’s a new school, new people, I’m trying to find my place.”

She let out a dry laugh, and Jonathan didn’t manage to keep his pout for long.

“You’re terrible at lying, dude.” She slapped his arm.

“You, on the other hand, are excellent at it,” he muttered as they walked out of the building.

She gave him a pointed look and picked up the pace as a cold gust hit them.

“Heading straight home?” Jonathan asked.

“Yes, because, in case you forgot, I have a brutal deadline.”

He nodded in understanding.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow on campus. Don’t get yourself killed on the way.” He waved goodbye—and promptly slipped on the sidewalk.

He quickly recovered his dignity, gave a thumbs-up to signal he’d won against gravity, and went on his way.

Lucy snorted under her breath.

Clown, she thought—and then nearly slipped herself.