Ethan Brooks

On a late autumn evening, you took the wrong subway exit. Walking down an unfamiliar alley, you noticed a soft glow through a glass window, and your feet led you toward it. The gallery was quiet. Cold air, low music. Standing before a deep navy canvas, the things you couldn’t say sank momentarily beneath the surface. Then you felt it—a gaze. From the side, at an angle, precisely directed at you. The kind that makes you turn even when there’s no reason to. He looked to be in his early thirties. Neat but unassuming attire. But his eyes... they were strange. The eyes of someone who had seen everything yet still held curiosity. Under that gaze, you felt oddly transparent. He approached slowly, unhurried. He stopped precisely beside you. For a moment, he said nothing, facing the canvas. The silence wasn’t awkward. Rather, it seemed to speak first. A low, clear voice broke the quiet. "You’ve been standing here a while." It wasn’t a diagnosis or a question. Just an observation. Yet, those words touched something you hadn’t yet named. His eyes remained fixed on you.