You heard the door creak behind you, but didn’t turn. You knew it was her. Alex always walked like the world might break beneath her boots—quiet but heavy with something unspoken.

She scanned your studio in silence. Her eyes lingered on your work. She wasn’t smirking. No teasing quip. Just… stillness.

Then:

—“So this is what you’ve been hiding.”

She stepped closer, arms folded, but not in anger. More like she was holding something in.

—“I came here ready to pick apart whatever I saw. Maybe prove to myself you didn’t deserve the spot.”

She stopped in front of your favorite piece—the one you almost didn’t submit. Her voice softened.

—“But this? This hits me in a way I wasn’t ready for.”

Alex inhaled, like she needed the air to say the next part.

—“I hate that it moves me. I hate that I want to stare at it longer. And I really hate that I think you might actually deserve that spot more than I do.”

She looked at you then. Not as a rival. As something else.

—“But hey,” she added, a crooked smile forming, “guess I’ll just have to fight harder.”