The phone’s vibration rattled violently against the scarred surface of his drafting table, a jarring tremor in the tomb-like quiet of the studio. Leaf’s head snapped up from the sketch he’d been tormenting for the last hour, his heart kicking into a frantic, uneven rhythm. The screen lit up with two words that made the air in his lungs turn to ice: Lena – Gallery. He stared for a half-second too long, a rabbit caught in the glare of a career-ending, debt-collecting pair of headlights.
His hand shook as he swiped to answer, pressing the cold glass to his ear. “Hello?” The word came out as a strangled squeak, a pathetic sound he barely recognized as his own. Lena’s voice was the opposite, a crisp, professional staccato that cut through the static of his anxiety with surgical precision. She didn’t bother with pleasantries, just as she never did.
“Leaf, I have news about the cylinder piece,” she said, her tone flat and unreadable. “A local logistics firm saw it. Titan Trucking.”
Leaf’s mind raced, bracing for the worst, for a complaint or a demand for a refund on the gallery’s commission. He imagined his art being hauled away, another monument to his failure. But Lena kept talking, her words forming a sentence that didn’t compute.
“They want to commission a full series,” she continued, a rare hint of something other than cool appraisal in her voice. “Six large-scale digital works. They want you to capture the mechanical heart of the city, inspired by that piece.” Then came the number, a figure so staggering it seemed to warp the very air in the room, enough to erase his debts and secure his life for a full year. It was validation. It was salvation.
He ended the call in a state of profound shock, the phone slipping from his numb fingers and clattering onto the floorboards. The sound barely registered. A tidal wave of relief washed over him, so immense it was almost painful, but the money was a secondary shockwave. The financial reality was a distant, abstract concept compared to the single, coherent thought that sliced through the euphoric fog, a name that felt more real than the floor beneath his feet.
Rowen.
He had to tell Rowen. The impulse was immediate, instinctual, a magnetic pull that bypassed all rational thought. This victory, this impossible, life-altering triumph, didn’t feel complete. It wouldn’t be real until he saw it reflected in Rowen’s steady, quiet eyes.
He scrambled for his keys, knocking over a stack of art books in his haste. He didn’t look back at the mess. He didn’t bother to change out of his paint-splattered joggers and worn-out t-shirt, not even glancing in the mirror as he bolted for the door. His mind was racing far faster than his feet, carrying him out of his apartment and down the three flights of stairs in a breathless sprint.
He burst into the auto shop with enough force to make the little bell above the door chime in a frantic, panicked jingle. The familiar scent of motor oil, citrus solvent, and hot metal hit him, a smell he had once found abrasive but now associated with a strange, burgeoning sense of hope. The cavernous space was filled with the rhythmic, methodical sound of a ratchet turning, a steady heartbeat in the controlled chaos of machinery. Rowen was exactly where Leaf expected him to be, a solid, reassuring presence.
Only his grease-stained work boots and the denim-clad length of his legs were visible, sticking out from underneath the chassis of a massive pickup truck. Leaf stood there for a moment, his own body vibrating with an ecstatic, kinetic energy that felt entirely alien in this place of tangible, patient work. The contrast was stark: him, a mess of frayed nerves and life-altering news, and Rowen, absorbed in the steady, physical reality of his craft. He couldn’t contain it for another second.
He didn’t wait for Rowen to emerge or even acknowledge his presence. “Rowen! Rowen, you are not going to believe this!” His voice was too loud, bouncing off the high metal ceiling and echoing back at him.
The methodical ratcheting stopped.
A moment later, Rowen slid out from under the truck on a wheeled creeper, the casters rumbling softly on the concrete floor. He moved with an unhurried grace, pushing himself into a sitting position and wiping a smudge of black grease from his forehead with the back of his hand. He blinked up at Leaf, his dark eyes adjusting to the light, his expression shifting from focused concentration to one of mild, curious amusement at the artist’s manic energy.
“What’s up?” Rowen asked, a slow smile touching his lips. “You look like you just won the lottery.”
The words poured out of Leaf in a breathless, disorganized torrent, tumbling over one another in their haste to exist in the world. He explained the call from Lena, the trucking company, the almost unbelievable scale of the project. He described the concept of the six pieces, his voice cracking with an emotion he couldn’t name as he recounted the life-changing sum of money that came with them.
As he spoke, Rowen’s initial amusement melted away, replaced by something deeper and more engaged. He sat up fully on the creeper, his gaze fixed on Leaf, his faint smile broadening into a slow, genuine grin of pure, unadulterated happiness. When Leaf finally ran out of air, Rowen pushed himself to his feet, wiping his hands on an already-filthy red rag he pulled from his back pocket.
“Holy crap, Leaf,” he said, his voice low and warm with a sincerity that resonated deep in Leaf’s chest. “That’s… that’s amazing.” He closed the small distance between them and clapped a heavy, warm hand on Leaf’s shoulder, the solid weight of it a grounding force. He held up his other hand, palm open. “Seriously. Proud of you, man.”
Leaf’s hand met Rowen’s in a solid, resounding clap. The contact was brief, a simple high-five between friends, but for Leaf, it was like a live wire pressed against his skin. His entire consciousness snagged on that one, simple word, replaying it in his mind until it became a deafening chorus.
Proud.
It wasn’t ‘that’s great news’ or ‘I’m happy for you.’ It was proud. The word felt possessive, intimate, a quiet declaration that this wasn’t just Leaf’s victory but theirs. It implied a shared journey, a vested interest, a connection that went far beyond friendly encouragement. In the echo chamber of Leaf’s head, Rowen’s simple, friendly gesture transformed into a profound and undeniable acknowledgment of their bond.
He’s proud of me. He sees this as our success. The thought bloomed in his chest, a warm, intoxicating certainty that drowned out the lingering anxieties and the years of self-doubt. This commission was no longer just about his art or his finances. It was a sign from the universe, a confirmation that they were on the right path, together.
Later that night, the roar of air guns and the clang of metal had faded into a deep, resonant silence. The only sounds in the shop were the soft scuff of Rowen’s boots on the concrete and the methodical clink of tools being wiped down and returned to their proper places on the pegboard wall. The sharp, clean scent of citrus-based solvent hung in the air, cutting through the day’s heavier smells of oil and exhaust.
Leaning against a steel workbench, Rowen pulled his phone from his pocket, his thumb swiping across the screen with familiar ease. He dialed a number from his favorites and held the phone to his ear, a tired but contented smile gracing his features. After a few rings, a warm, familiar voice answered on the other end.
“Hey, Sarah,” he said, the smile evident in his voice. He launched into the story without preamble, telling his sister about the artist who had practically taken up residence in his shop over the past few weeks, a whirlwind of nervous energy and surprising talent. This was Rowen unfiltered, his thoughts unburdened by the weight of Leaf’s hopeful projections, a private glimpse into his simple, straightforward affection.
He described Leaf with an obvious, easy fondness, chuckling as he recounted some of his more eccentric artistic habits and his intense fascination with mundane objects. “…yeah, this weird artist guy,” he was saying, his voice laced with amusement. “But he’s actually really talented. He got this huge commission today, came flying in here like his hair was on fire. It was great to see him so happy.”
On the other end of the line, Sarah listened, her voice carrying an intelligent curiosity that always managed to cut to the core of things. “He sounds… dedicated. Is he always so intense?”
Rowen let out a low laugh. “You have no idea. He thinks my collection of old spark plugs is a national treasure.”
There was a brief pause, and then Sarah’s voice came again, lighter this time, but with a new, probing edge. “And you think his inspiration is just about… the textures of the garage?”
The question was casual, but it made Rowen frown for a second, a brief flicker of confusion crossing his face. He glanced around the shop, at the hulking shapes of vehicles and the orderly rows of tools that Leaf found so endlessly fascinating. “Yeah,” he said, the answer seeming obvious. “What else would it be about?” He dismissed it with a slight shrug, turning his attention back to a stubborn grease stain on a wrench, but the question hung in the quiet air, a tiny, dissonant note in his simple understanding of their friendship.
Meanwhile, miles away in his own apartment, Leaf was in a state of pure, unadulterated bliss. The oppressive creative block had vanished, yet he wasn’t sketching. He wasn’t storyboarding the new series or even making notes. He was curled up on his lumpy sofa, his laptop balanced precariously on his knees, scrolling through page after page of high-end furniture websites with a ridiculous, giddy smile plastered on his face.
His internal monologue was a runaway train of domestic fantasy, fueled by a single word from a man in a garage. He pictured showing Rowen a plush, oversized sectional couch he’d bookmarked, imagining Rowen’s long frame stretched out on it after a hard day’s work. He imagined them cooking dinner together in a kitchen that wasn’t cramped and cluttered, their movements an easy, familiar dance. He imagined the quiet, comfortable, beautiful life that this commission had suddenly made feel not just possible, but inevitable.
His art, his finances, his love life—in the dizzying euphoria of the moment, they had all converged into a single, perfect future. A future he was meticulously, deliriously designing. A future built entirely around a man who just thought of him as his weird, talented friend.
—
Experience the slow-burn, heart-wrenching story of Leaf, a digitally blocked artist, and his deeply complicated friendship with Rowen in The Art of Unrequited. This emotional contemporary romance and slice-of-life tale explores unrequited love, personal growth, and creative inspiration, perfect for fans of fiction, slow-burn romances, friends-to-lovers tension, and character-driven storytelling. Click here to read the whole story.
