The Happiness Thief

Autumn in the Flower City always carries a damp chill in the wind. I wrapped my coat tighter as I stepped into Gleam Gallery; the wind chimes on the glass door tinkled. Jackson, the gallery owner, approached with a familiar smile: "Eva, the new batch of your 'Mist Realm' series just went up this morning, and someone's already asking about them." I nodded slightly, my gaze sweeping across the gallery, but then froze at the corner. The man with his back to me stood tall, dressed in a dark gray suit, a never-lit cigarette pinched between his fingers. Just from that silhouette, I recognized him after seven years. Justin Trent. He seemed to sense my gaze and slowly turned around. Seven years apart, the campus innocence is long gone; his eyes now carry the polished, calculated gleam of someone who's spent years hustling in the boardroom. Yet the look in his eyes when he met mine still burned with that same uncomfortable heat from back then. "Eva Thomas." He spoke, his voice deeper than I remembered, "Long time no see." I looked away and walked to the easel, pretending to straighten the frame. "Mr. Trent must have mistaken me for someone else." Jackson was momentarily stunned on the side, probably not expecting us to know each other. But Justin had no intention of stopping there; he walked over to me, his gaze settling on Misty Realm: First Snow hanging on the wall. "I want this painting, and every piece you've brought this time." I looked up at him, a cold smile curling on my lips. "Mr. Trent, I'm not selling my paintings to you." His expression flickered slightly: "Is it about the price? Name your price—anything will do." "It has nothing to do with the price." I picked up the brush and casually dipped some paint on the palette. "Jackson, make a note—my future works will never be sold to Justin Trent or anyone around him." Jackson hesitated but nodded, "Alright, I've got it." Justin clenched his fingers, his tone laced with false concern: "Eva, how have you been these past seven years? I heard that..." "My life has nothing to do with you." I cut him off, packed up my art supplies, and stood up. "Excuse me." I turned toward the door, and he hurried after me, "I'll see you home—it's windy outside." "No need." I pulled open the glass door, letting the cold wind rush in. "Mr. Trent, you would do better to mind your own business." I hailed a taxi, and as I got in, I saw Justin take out his phone to answer a call. The car window was slightly open, and his voice drifted in: "Cindy, I'm at the gallery... Yes, she's here... Don't worry, I'll find a way to buy her paintings..." The name "Cindy" felt like a thin needle, lightly pricking me. Cindy Johnson—my once closest friend, now Justin's wife. I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. Seven years have passed, and they're still exactly the same. The taxi pulled away from the gallery, and in the rearview mirror, Justin's figure grew smaller and smaller until it vanished into the traffic.