Theo's apartment was less a home and more a warning sign. Cramped walls seemed to close in on him, plastered with faded posters and canvases stacked like a leaning tower of dreams. Cheap art supplies—half-dried paint tubes, cracked brushes, stained rags—were scattered everywhere, the chaos of creation mirroring the mess of his life.
He dropped his bag by the cracked window and stared out at the city skyline he'd just tried to capture.
A flashback hit him: his mom in the kitchen, tired hands scraping dinner together; his sister Lily quietly doing homework at the kitchen table; his dad's gruff voice muffled behind a closed door. The weight of all the sacrifices they made pushed against his ribs. This wasn't just about him. It was all of them.
Turning back, he picked up a blank canvas and began to paint, the cityscape forming under his brush—a blur of towering skyscrapers, harsh lights, and shadows that crept like ghosts.
Stormy skies hovered over bright windows, the chaos and beauty tangled like a lover's fight.
He stepped back, eyes scanning the work. "Wow... it's terrible," he muttered, running a hand through his tangled hair. "Lily's gonna love this." He grinned and whispered, "Maybe I'll call it 'Skyscraper Blues'... or nah, 'Concrete Jungle Gym.' Ugh, that's awful. Perfect." He chuckled at his own cringy pun, shaking his head.
Before exhaustion claimed him, he snapped a photo and sent it to Lily.
"Not bad for a broke kid," her reply popped up instantly.
"You've got this, Theo."
A small warmth spread in his chest.
Morning came like a slap. His alarm blared too late, and panic flooded in. He threw off the thin blanket and shoved his feet into worn sneakers, his brain still foggy and half-dreaming of distant places.
The bathroom mirror showed a face worn too young—dark circles, a slight smudge of paint still clinging stubbornly to his cheek. He scrubbed furiously under cold water, barely tasting the bitter coffee he gulped, crumbs of a hurried toast falling to the floor.
His white blazer hung neatly—but somehow, the tie was twisted and crooked. He yanked it into place, cursed under his breath, and dashed for the door.
Disaster struck in the form of a tipped coffee cup, sending a dark splash across the pristine white fabric.
"Great start to the day," Theo muttered, glaring at the spreading stain. "Perfect."
No time for a second change. He grabbed his bag and ran.
The city didn't slow down for him. People pushed past without a glance, lost in their own chaos. Theo's breath hitched as he sprinted, the pavement pounding underfoot, ears ringing with distant horns and shouts. Somewhere, a siren wailed.
He caught a flash of something sleek and shiny—a black luxury car gliding past. Inside, a boy with cold eyes watched him, lips curling into a smirk.
Theo's mind flicked to a thought: What's his deal?
He burst through the school gates, heart pounding, lungs burning. The bell had already rung, and the hallway buzzed with students—rich kids chatting about galleries and grades, others draped in designer clothes, all sharp and polished.
Theo ducked his head, trying to slip in unnoticed.
No luck.
The art teacher, Ms. Carmichael, spotted him and called out loud enough for the whole class to hear. "Mr. Valtez! Late to your first day, I see. Care to explain?"
All eyes turned as Theo shuffled to the front, cheeks burning.
He cleared his throat. "Sorry, ma'am. Got caught up."
The classroom fell into murmurs, some amused, others indifferent.
Ms. Carmichael waved a hand. "Make it quick. Introduce yourself."
Theo squared his shoulders. "Theo Valtez. From Millersville. I'm here to paint the city like it's never been painted before."
A few chuckles rippled through the room.
As he turned to find a seat, his foot caught on the edge of a desk. He stumbled, arms flailing, and landed hard on his side.
"Uhhh, yeah," he muttered, scrambling up awkwardly. "Haha... first day jitters?"
He glanced around and caught sight of Isabella sitting near the front, eyes half-lidded, clearly bored and scrolling on her phone—completely uninterested.
The room was filled with talented artists—rich kids with perfect portfolios and quiet confidence. Theo felt like a cracked paintbrush in a gallery of fine china.
But he wasn't backing down.