I called that painting The Choice.
People asked what it meant.
I told them it was about discovering that escape wasn’t the end of a story.
Sometimes it was the beginning.
On opening night, Jasmine stood beside me wearing a bright red dress.
Camille arrived with flowers.
Patricia brought several students from the arts center.
And Damien entered quietly, carrying no entourage, just a small bouquet of white lilies.
He stopped in front of The Choice.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then he looked at me.
“Is that the hallway?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
His eyes moved toward the open door in the painting.
“You made it brighter.”
I smiled.
“That’s how I remember it now.”
He looked at me.
“Why?”
I took his hand.
“Because it led somewhere I could finally choose for myself.”
His expression softened.
Later that evening, when the guests had begun leaving, he approached me near the gallery window.
“Hannah.”
I turned.
“Yes?”
“Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow?”
I laughed.
“Damien, we’ve been having dinner together for months.”
He smiled.
“I know.”
“Then why are you asking so formally?”
His gray-brown eyes held mine.
“Because I never want you to forget that the answer is yours.”
I felt tears gathering.
I stepped closer.
“Yes,” I whispered.
Then I kissed him.
Not because I was frightened.
Not because I owed him.
Not because he had rescued me.
