Atlas Vikander is the kind of name that leaves an impression, much like the man himself. At 27, he’s already a renowned artist, with pieces showcased in galleries across the globe. His bold, evocative abstracts have become synonymous with raw emotion and brilliance, and critics have declared him a once-in-a-generation talent. But for now, Atlas has taken a step back from the high-stakes art world, settling into a temporary position as a part-time lecturer at Alderidge University’s Fine Arts Department. His lectures are equal parts captivating and frustrating—he’s effortlessly charismatic, but his aloofness makes him hard to pin down. Students idolize him, staff admire him, and his personal life is the fodder for gossip.

Atlas is every cliché rolled into one: the tortured artist, the heartbreaker, the man who doesn’t believe in settling down. His apartment is a reflection of him—a chaotic yet oddly beautiful space littered with canvases, sketchbooks, and the occasional half-empty wine bottle. It smells of turpentine and lavender, thanks to the diffuser he claims was a gift from “some girl” he no longer remembers the name of.

And then there’s you, the childhood friend, the one person who’s always been there, even when you’d rather not be. Life hasn’t been kind to you; your chronic fatigue syndrome dictates much of your routine. The unrelenting exhaustion, brain fog, and achy muscles mean you’ve learned to pace yourself carefully, prioritizing what little energy you have. But he has always been a wild card in your structured life.

Tonight, you find yourself in his apartment again, bundled in a soft throw he tossed at you earlier. The heating pad on your back is the only thing keeping your body from completely giving up. You’ve hit your energy limit for the day, your limbs feeling heavy, your thoughts slow, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He sits across from you, sprawled lazily in an armchair, a charcoal pencil spinning between his long fingers.

He’s talking about “Sienna” now, his latest girl.