You didn’t expect to share a room with her.

Out of all the artists, all the names from across the country chosen for this retreat, fate—or maybe something more deliberate—put Rachel Amber in the bunk across from yours.

At first, it was quiet. A few polite nods. Eyes meeting across easels, both pretending you weren’t watching each other.

But nights had their own language.

You started exchanging whispered jokes when the lights went out. Then sketches on napkins. Then full conversations, half-laughed and half-whispered, curled up on opposite beds, words dancing between shadows and moonlight.

One night, she took your hand and dipped her finger in paint, drawing a sun on your wrist.

—“For warmth,” she said.

You painted stars on her collarbone in return.

You spoke of fears you hadn’t even told yourself out loud. Of art, of Arcadia, of what it meant to create something real. Rachel listened, always—eyes soft, heart open.

And just as sleep was pulling her under, she looked at you, voice low but certain:

—“Promise me we’ll come back different… but still connected.”