The initial plan is to head to the jewelry store right away, but I had to delay the visit until after Eleonora's gallery opening. Kal wanted to go and check it out alone, but I made him swear not to make a move without me. He's too impulsive and I wanna be there to hear everything. The curiosity is eating me alive, yet all I do is stand with the doors to my closet opened, looking for a suitable outfit to wear.

The one thing I can't stop thinking about is how short three weeks are, or more specifically; how short these three weeks were. With Kal. A while after Atlas died and I stopped going to work, it felt like time was on my side. There was almost too much of it. I would spend hours trying to write something decent and then I would finish reading a whole book and binge watch my favorite series and only a few hours would pass. All I wanted then was to do keep myself busy for as long as possible, thinking that if enough time passed, I would feel less pain. Back then I would count down the days and it would only be thirty or sixty and it seemed like it's been years, like I haven't seen him in eons. Now nearly three hundred days had passed since I'd last seen him and nothing has changed. I've done nothing since then, as if time has stood still. I wasted a whole year of my life doing nothing. At least now I have some kind of goal even if I'm not guaranteed an outcome (or that it might be unpleasant).

After careful observations, I decide to do something I haven't done in a long time. Maybe even a year before Atlas had died. I put on a dress. There's a strange magic about wearing a dress that I don't understand, like how I sometimes feel that it makes me look more beautiful. Then there's the fact that putting on a dress is deemed as making effort in your appearance even though it takes less time than putting on jeans and a t-shirt.

I end up in a short, navy-colored dress. Instead of straightening my hair, I let it fall naturally on my shoulder, big and curly. The one thing people ask me when they look at my hair and the color of my skin (dark but not dark enough for them to assume that I'm part-black), is to ask me about my parents and what their ethnicity is. When I was younger, it used to piss me off so much. No one ever asks a white person where his parents come from and what color they are. Kal never asked, which is another thing I like about him. He doesn't care much for the explanation of my life. Just for the big events. And that's enough. For now, at least.

My reflection looks different. It's been a while since I last dressed up for something. Now that I think about it, I was mistaken. The last time I wore a dress was at Atlas's funeral. I still remember what it looked like. Black, obviously, and long. As simple as it was, I couldn't look at it anymore. I think El donated it or something. My memory of that day is a big foggy, which I'm glad for. El took charge that day and I'm forever grateful. She greeted the guests and answered all the questions I don't like addressing. Everyone always wants to know how it happened and that was the last thing I could mention that day. Or ever.

I'm not good at make-up and I don't like the way it feels on my skin, so I opt for a bit of mascara and a tinted lip balm. El loves her make-up. She's good at it too. She knows how to make it look simple and effortless even if she spends hours on it.

When I'm satisfied, I send El a quick message to let her know that I'm leaving the house. It's a reassurance so that she knows that I'm coming. I've never bailed on her in any of her gallery openings before, but I still feel the need to justify myself.

I walk out of the apartment building, beginning to dial for a cab when I see a familiar car parked outside. The silver exterior catches my attention and I look up. Inside it are the same pale blue eyes that kissed me not too long ago. We haven't been alone like that since. When El ruined the moment, the awkwardness lingered, it seems. Maybe it's because we're mostly busy with figuring this out.

I was hoping that by now Kal would call me up and tell me that he found out the truth, that he was wrong. It wasn't Atlas all along. We'd get back to square one, but at least we can keep looking for an explanation more possible.

I approach the car silently. He's wearing a nice dress shirt. It's gray. He obviously thinks he's here to pick me up. I do recall mentioning the art gallery to Kal once, telling him that it would be held this Friday.

Leaning against the car, I say, "How did you know what time to come?"

Kal shrugs, an easy smile on his lips. "I just came early and thought I would wait," he says, showing me the book he's reading. It takes me a second before realizing that it's To Kill a Mocking Bird, one of my least favorite books—if I ever dared to assign one. The story is amazing and I love Atticus's relationship with his kids, but it's just so damn boring! "I was gonna call you but I thought you'd try to talk me out of it. Also, I hear you have a history of not answering phone calls."

Despite the circumstances, I smile and walk to the passenger seat.

"Now this is good experimenting," Kal says. "I've never been to an art gallery before, and certainly not one where I know the artist. This may by the only cool thing I do."

"You don't know Eleonora. The two of you barely met."

He shakes his head. "Hearing her yell at you developed a bond between us," he says. "She might even remember my name."

I roll my eyes, hiding a smile.

We drive in silence, for the most part. The only time I talk is to make sure Kal knows where we're going. It's not that far away. I've been here before a couple of times. Last year El took me to see some paintings. We even bought one of them, but I let her keep it. Two years ago she had another gallery opening and the year before that as well. She sold pretty much every piece. Eleonora is a pretty good artist. It's the one time where she follows a strict schedule and puts in effort. She's the most disorganized person I know. She loves being spontaneous and having things take their own course instead of forcing it. I'm the opposite of that.

Our parents always tried to steer us in opposite direction to make sure there was some balance. El made me do crazy things. She'd grab my hand and makes us run all the way home and leave our bikes unattended. I remember it being so disturbing to me how carefree she was. It's not that I was envious. Everything had to go a certain way in my mind. There needs to be enough planning. Someone has to be the responsible one. By the time I finish making a pros and cons list, El has already set off for her next adventure.

I think it's the thing that draws me to her. No one else is like her. She sets her own rules yet still manages to accomplish so much, whereas I just sit around waiting for Atlas when I know he's never coming back.

We can do everything we can to figure out what happened, but the truth is there in the back of my mind. The only thing I can do know is enjoy tonight and every other thing that comes.

When we get out of the car, I'm glad to see the place is packed. I know a lot of these people are Eleonora's friends and coworkers, but there's still a lot of strangers who were drawn in by the art.

Kal holds my hand when we walk in.

It's different from her usual style. She usually goes with the blackout poetry style that I suggested to her years ago, making it more and more unique every time.

The room is filled with bright colors. Every paining is so colorful that it looks like it was painted by a child. There's one specific painting that draws me closer. Only my sister would draw a painting of herself. It's her face, or the side of it, painted in so many different colors. Her hair is curly like always, but it's colored in shades of yellow, orange, green, and purple. I can't stop staring at her. She looks so confident in that painting. In real life too. She's standing in the middle of a crowd with a glass of champagne laughing at something. She begins to explain, her voice quick and enthusiastic as she begins to explain every little detail of the inspiration for the painting, beginning from each brush stroke. She's never afraid of sounding too dorky or being made fun of.

There's a picture of a couple kissing, their faces hidden by an umbrella. I can see the rain and I can feel the cold. I can see Eleonora dancing with her ex-boyfriend Ian under the rain. If only he was still there to keep her company.

My favorite paintings are the simpler ones. In one, she paints the sky and clouds but she does it so abstractly that it looks like colors put together until you look at it long enough. There's one that catches my attention the most. I stand there forever holding Kal's hand and staring at the Chicago skyline painted in acrylic, just a bunch of gray jumbled up together, reflecting on the water.

His thumb starts tracing my palm in a way that makes the hairs in the back of my neck stand, and they do. He whispers in my ear, "I think this one's my favorite." All at once words have lost all their meanings.

There's a strange thought that comes to my mind, one I never imagined would occur to me. I don't know what came over me, but suddenly I'm thinking of my parents and whether Kal would've liked meeting them. I'm thinking of whether or not he would like El if they had the time to talk and get to know each other.

I have this urge to kiss him again. I drown in it but not for long. He must've felt it too because soon he's kissing me again. We're backed up against the wall. It's far enough from the crowd not to draw too much attention. At this point, I don't even care if Eleonora can see us. She's probably glaring at me right now. I think people would like the art more knowing it makes people want to kiss.

And this kiss is better than the first time.