Chapter 22

My dearest Jack,

Happy birthday, my love. I hope this letter finds you in good spirits—or at least in better spirits than I suspect you might be. Knowing you, you'll try to shrug it off, but I hope you take a moment today to celebrate yourself. You deserve that much and more.

I'm sending a little something with this letter—a small bouquet of dried flowers. They're simple, but they reminded me of you, of your drawings of wildflowers and how you always find beauty in the smallest, most overlooked things. I hope you'll keep them near, perhaps on your desk while you work, as a small reminder of me.

And, well, I've also sent you something else—a photograph of me. I must admit, I feel a bit silly sending the photograph. At first, I hesitated, thinking it a vain gift. But then I realized how much I long to have a photograph of you, something tangible to hold when my memory alone isn't enough. Do you know how often I find myself closing my eyes and trying to picture you? The way you look when you smile, how your hair falls into your eyes when you're deep in thought, or the way your hands move when you draw. I only have my memories to rely on, and though they are dear to me, I sometimes fear they aren't enough to hold you as vividly as I'd like. So one day, when you are able to, I hope you'll send me a picture of yourself.

How is school? Is it still as exciting and interesting as when you first started? I imagine you in that classroom, sketching away, surrounded by the kind of people who understand and appreciate your brilliance. Have others seen your portfolio yet? If they haven't, I'm sure the moment they do, they'll know they're in the presence of greatness.

Take care of yourself, my love. Promise me you'll at least try to celebrate today, even if it's with something as simple as a walk or a drink.

Forever yours,
Rose

P.S. Do let me know if you get the flowers intact. I wasn't entirely sure how to package them, and I wouldn't be surprised if they've arrived as a crumpled mess. If that's the case, know that my intentions were good—and that I'm laughing at myself as I imagine the mess you've likely received.

Jack fumbled with the key as he stumbled through the front door, his body swaying unsteadily. The staircase loomed ahead of him like a mountain, and he gripped the banister tightly, dragging himself upward with uneven steps. His breath reeked of whiskey, and his clothes carried the faint scent of stale cigar smoke.

Clara stood at the top of the stairs, her arms crossed, her expression a mix of concern and frustration. She watched him struggle, her lips pursed, before stepping aside to let him pass.

"It's Tuesday night, Mr. Dawson," she said, following him down the hallway. "It can't go on like this."

Jack didn't answer, too focused on navigating his way to his room. When he reached the door, he leaned heavily against it, struggling to kick off his shoes.

"It can't go on like this, Mr. Dawson," Clara repeated, her voice sharper this time.

Jack finally turned to her, his eyes glassy and red. "It's my birthday, Clara," he slurred, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Can't I celebrate my birthday?"

She sighed, stepping closer to steady him as he wobbled. "Celebrating is one thing. This is something else entirely." She crouched down and helped him tug off his shoes, her movements brisk but not unkind. "You're drunk most days of the week, and on the days you're not, you lock yourself in your room. What's going on with you?"

Jack didn't respond immediately. He stared at the floor, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Nothing," he mumbled finally, but his voice cracked on the word.

Clara stood, studying him. "It doesn't seem like nothing," she said softly.

Jack shook his head, a bitter chuckle escaping him. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, but it was no use—the tears were already there, hot and stinging.

Clara softened, her posture shifting. "Mr. Dawson?"

"I hate it in this city," he finally whispered, his voice cracking. "And I miss her. Every day. Every damn day."

Jack remained on the edge of the bed, his hands now loosely clasped in his lap as the silence in the room stretched. Clara hadn't moved. Her steady presence felt heavier than his own words hanging in the air.

When she finally spoke, her voice was calm but firm, each word landing with precision. "You both made your decisions, Mr. Dawson," she said, her arms crossed but her tone surprisingly even. "You chose to stay here, to build a life, and she chose to stay there. You're both living with those choices. That's how you wanted to do it, isn't it?"

Jack's head dipped slightly, his hair falling into his eyes as he avoided her gaze. He didn't respond, but Clara didn't need him to. She pressed on, her voice softening just a fraction.

"I'm not saying it's easy," she continued, her tone still unwavering. "But you can't keep drowning yourself over something you both agreed to. It's not fair—to her, to yourself."

Jack ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a heavy breath. "It's not as simple as just 'getting over it,' Clara," he said, his voice raw.

"No, it's not," she agreed, her expression unreadable. "But that doesn't mean you can just wallow in it forever. You've got to find a way to live, Jack. To actually live, not just exist."

The weight of her words pressed into him like a stone. For a moment, the room was completely still, save for the sound of Jack's uneven breathing. Then, out of nowhere, Clara moved closer.

She leaned down, her voice softening even further as she added, "You deserve to be happy. Even if you can't see it right now."

Before Jack could respond, Clara did something that caught him completely off guard. She placed a gentle kiss on his cheek—light, fleeting, but purposeful. Her lips barely grazed his skin, but the touch lingered in his mind as she pulled back and straightened.

Jack blinked, turning his head slightly to look at her, his expression one of surprise and confusion. But Clara didn't meet his gaze.

"Good night, Jack," she said quietly, her tone carefully neutral. Without another word, she turned and walked to the door, her steps measured and calm.

My dearest Rose,

Your letter reached me yesterday, and I haven't stopped reading it since. It's as though your words carry a piece of you, and for a moment, I don't feel so far away. Thank you for remembering my birthday, for the kind words, the dried flowers, and, most of all, the photograph. And yes, now I have to admit that I must have stared at it for an hour straight after opening your package.

You said it felt strange to send me a photograph, but I hope you know how much it means to me. I've missed you every day since I left Los Angeles, Rose. Seeing your face again—even just a still image—makes me feel like I'm back there with you, even if only for a second. You look as beautiful as ever, of course, but more than that, you look like yourself: confident, vibrant, and alive. That's the Rose I fell in love with and the one I think about every single day.

I've placed the photograph on the small table beside my bed, so you're the last thing I see before I fall asleep and the first thing I see when I wake. It's a poor substitute for the real thing, but until I can see you again, it will have to do.

The dried flowers were a perfect touch, even if they arrived a little worse for wear. I've put them on my desk, and they brighten up the space more than I expected. They remind me of your thoughtfulness, of the little ways you always make things feel special. I wonder sometimes how you manage to do that so effortlessly. It's a gift, Rose, and I hope you never doubt how special you are.

As for me, things here are… busy. School is more demanding than I imagined, but it's good work I guess, It's been keeping me busy. We've been diving deeper into drafting and design, and it's fascinating how every little detail can change the bigger picture. It reminds me of sketching in a way—how a single line or shadow can bring something to life.

There's a sense of satisfaction in creating something from nothing, even if it's just a blueprint for now. The professors are tough, but fair, and I'm learning so much. It's exhausting, but it feels like the kind of exhaustion that's worth it.

Outside of school, the city is as alive as ever. There's always something happening here, always something to participate in. But other than that, I've discovered a park not far from where I'm staying, and it's become my favorite place to escape. I bring my sketchbook with me and sit under the trees, watching people pass by. It's quiet, peaceful—a rare thing in a city like this.

You asked for a photograph of me, and I promise I'll send one soon. Though I have to warn you, it won't be much to look at—nothing like the one you sent me. But I'll try to make it worth your while, even if it takes a few tries to get it right.

Rose, your letters mean more to me than I can say. Each one feels like a lifeline, pulling me out of the chaos and grounding me in what really matters. I hope you know how much strength I draw from your words, how much comfort they bring me.

Sometimes, late at night, when I'm too tired to sleep, I find myself imagining what life will look like when we're finally together again. I think of the laughter we'll share, the simple joys of being in the same room, and it gives me hope. Until then, I'll keep doing what I can to make you proud.

Take care of yourself, my love, and please write again soon. Your words are the brightest part of my days.

Yours forever,
Jack

Jack leaned against the cold brick wall just outside the art building, a cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers. Although summer was looming not far in the distance, the day was unusually warm for spring. With the air carrying the faint scent of blooming flowers mixed with the earthy aroma of the city. He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his gaze fixed on the scuffed tips of his boots. His thoughts drifted, as they often did.

"Mr. Dawson."

Jack startled slightly, glancing up to see Professor Reynolds standing a few feet away. The man was tall and sharp-featured, his graying hair combed back neatly, his wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on his nose. He had an air of constant authority, his hands clasped behind his back as he regarded Jack with an inscrutable expression.

"Professor," Jack said, stubbing out his cigarette against the wall before tucking it into his pocket. "Something I can help you with?"

Reynolds tilted his head, a faint smile playing at his lips, though his tone remained serious. "I'd like to speak with you in my office. If you have a moment."

Jack hesitated, shoving his hands into his pockets. His first instinct was to wonder if he'd done something wrong. The professor wasn't exactly known for casual conversations. "Of course," he said finally, pushing off the wall.

The two walked in silence, the steady click of Reynolds' polished shoes echoing through the hallway. Jack kept his head down, wondering what this was about. Was it his recent sketches? A project deadline he'd missed?

When they reached the professor's office, Reynolds unlocked the door and gestured for Jack to enter. The room was meticulously organized—books lined the shelves in perfect order, and drafts of architectural blueprints were neatly pinned to the walls. The faint scent of ink and old paper hung in the air.

"Take a seat," Reynolds said, motioning to the chair across from his desk as he settled into his own.

Jack did as instructed, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

Reynolds leaned back, steepling his fingers. "I've been reviewing your work, Dawson."

Jack's stomach tightened. "Is there a problem with them?"

"On the contrary," Reynolds replied, his tone softer now. "Your designs show an exceptional understanding of form and function. They're bold, imaginative, and, frankly, far beyond the work of most of your peers."

Jack blinked, unsure how to respond. "Thank you, sir," he said cautiously.

"But, I'll be direct, Dawson," Reynolds then continued, folding his hands on the desk. "I've noticed you've been struggling these past few weeks."

Jack's jaw tightened, and he looked down at his hands. "I—"

Reynolds cut him off with a raised hand. "Let me finish." His tone wasn't unkind, but it carried authority. "You're late more often than not. Your sketches, while still impressive, lack the detail and care they once had. And you've seemed… distracted. Am I wrong?"

Jack exhaled slowly. "No, sir."

Reynolds nodded, as if Jack's admission confirmed what he'd already suspected. "It's a shame, you know. Because you're one of the most talented students I've ever had the privilege to teach."

Jack's head snapped up, surprise flashing across his face.

"It's conflicting for me," Reynolds said, folding his hands on the desk. "To see someone as talented as you, someone who could truly excel, struggle the way you have been."

"I'll do better, sir." Jack straightened his back and looked Reynolds straight in the eyes, trying to sound as convincing as possible, "I just have to get some things straight, but I promise you I will make it right."

"I've been thinking about your situation," Reynolds finally said, his voice measured. "And while your recent struggles have been apparent, so has your potential. You've demonstrated an understanding of form and function that many of the other students lack. You have raw talent, Dawson—talent that shouldn't be wasted."

Jack swallowed, unsure of where this was going. "Thank you, sir," he said hesitantly.

"You see, you don't have to convince me that you will do better. You are bored, Dawson. And people who are bored need a new challenge. Therefore I have been considering to offer you an apprenticeship."

Jack shifted in his seat, the familiar creak of the wooden chair grounding him as he processed the professor's words. The dim light from the desk lamp cast shadows across the room, making the moment feel even more surreal.

"An apprenticeship?" Jack repeated, his voice laced with disbelief.

Reynolds nodded, leaning back in his chair with an approving smile. "Yes, Jack. With a company I have the utmost respect for. They're designing a building intended for lower-income communities—a housing and community center project. It's innovative, necessary, and I think you'd thrive there. The team is talented, but they need someone with fresh ideas, someone willing to get their hands dirty and think outside the box. That's you."

Jack's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. "I… I don't know what to say. This is… incredible. I mean, thank you, sir. Really."

Reynolds chuckled softly, waving a hand. "Don't thank me yet. The apprenticeship begins in August, so you've got time to decide if it's the right fit. It's not mandatory, Jack. If you feel like staying the course here at school is a better option, I'll support that as well. But I want you to know that opportunities like this don't come around often. Especially for someone your age."

Jack swallowed hard, the weight of the offer settling in his chest. It wasn't just an opportunity; it was a lifeline. A way to prove himself not only to Reynolds and the world but to himself.

"This is… I mean, wow," Jack stammered, running a hand through his hair. "I'll need some time to think it through, but thank you for even considering me for something like this."

Reynolds nodded, his expression calm and encouraging. "Take the time you need, Dawson. But don't overthink it. Sometimes the best decisions come from the gut, not the head. Just let me know by the end of the term so I can make the arrangements."

Jack nodded, standing on shaky legs. "I will, sir. I promise."

Reynolds smiled again, standing and walking around his desk. He extended a hand, and Jack shook it firmly. "Good. Now, before you go, I'll answer the question I know you're dying to ask."

Jack blinked, caught off guard. "What question?"

Reynolds smirked. "Where is it?"

Jack exhaled a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, you got me. Yeah, where's the job?"