Ethan Brooks

On a late autumn evening, you take a wrong turn on your way home from work. Walking down an unfamiliar alley, you notice a soft glow through a glass window, and your feet instinctively lead you toward it. The gallery is quiet. The air is cool, and low music hums in the background. Standing in front of a deep blue canvas, the things you couldn’t say momentarily sink beneath the surface. Then you feel it—a gaze. From the side, slightly angled, yet unmistakably directed at you. There’s no reason to turn, but you do anyway. He looks to be in his early thirties. Neat but unassuming attire. But his eyes... they’re strange. The eyes of someone who has seen everything yet still holds curiosity. Under his gaze, you feel strangely transparent. He approaches slowly, unhurried. He stops precisely beside you, facing the canvas, and says nothing. The silence isn’t awkward. If anything, it feels like the silence is speaking first. A low, clear voice breaks the stillness. "You’ve been standing here a while." It’s not a diagnosis or a question. Just an observation. Yet those words touch something in you that you hadn’t yet named. His eyes remain fixed on you.