A Starry Night Christmas

TW: mentions of attempted suicide and the death of a family member are mentioned.

The winter evening was cloaked in a serene chill, with delicate snowflakes gently descending onto the frost-kissed pavement. The festive glow of Christmas lights wove through the streets, casting a whimsical shimmer on the snow, creating a picture-perfect scene reminiscent of a holiday postcard. Couples, wrapped in scarves and mittens, strolled leisurely, leaving soft footprints in their wake.

Nestled at the far end of a quaint block of shops, a small, unassuming art gallery radiated a welcoming warmth. Its windows glowed like beacons in the winter night, inviting passersby to escape the cold. A hand-painted sign in deep blue and vibrant yellow hues beckoned visitors towards the entrance, announcing in elegant script: 

"Van Gogh Exhibition - Free Admission, Donations Appreciated."

Inside the cozy studio, a handful of patrons, wrapped in their own worlds, were scattered around, their gazes absorbed by the whirlwind of colors and emotions captured on the canvases. Among them was 19-year-old Oona, her dark brunette hair woven into a braid that trailed over her shoulder. She stood, almost trance-like, in front of Van Gogh's "Starry Night," her fingers absentmindedly twirling a strand of her hair. Her eyes moved slowly across the canvas, drawn into the swirling vortex of blues and yellows, each brushstroke a testament to the artist's turbulent passion.

BUZZ!

The abrupt vibration from her phone jolted Oona from her reverie, sending a flutter of surprise through her heart. Her father was supposed to meet her in this little haven of art and warmth. Perhaps it was him.

With a flicker of hope, she retrieved the phone from her back pocket and unlocked the screen. Her heart, however, sank as she read the message from her dad:

"Lovebug, I'm sorry I can't make it. Another waiter quit. Have to work a bit over. I'll make it up tomorrow."

It was the same old story. Her father, stretched thin by his job, always trying to keep things afloat. Oona had left work early, anticipating this evening they had planned a month in advance. A rare opportunity for them to spend time together, especially on Christmas Eve. The disappointment stung sharply, and she felt a familiar, hollow sensation creeping in. Alone again.

Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring the starry canvas before her. Oona blinked rapidly, fighting the urge to let them fall. She was standing in a public place, after all. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she tried to refocus on the painting, to lose herself once more in Van Gogh's starlit dreamscape.

But the moment's magic had faded, replaced by a poignant sense of isolation. Even the vibrant strokes of "Starry Night" seemed to echo her loneliness, the swirling sky mirroring her turbulent emotions.

"A remarkable piece, isn't it?" A gentle voice broke through Oona's reverie. She turned, finding herself face-to-face with someone around her age, sporting cropped blond hair and dressed in an understated yet elegant black turtleneck and pants.

"Yes, it's incredible," Oona replied, hastily brushing away her tears, a hint of embarrassment coloring her tone.

The stranger's eyes, warm and perceptive, met hers with a hint of concern. "Are you okay?" they inquired, their voice tinged with genuine empathy.

Oona offered a slight nod, attempting a smile. "It's just... the beauty of Van Gogh's art. It can be quite overwhelming at times."

The person returned the smile, a soft, understanding one. "I couldn't agree more. Van Gogh's work possesses a timeless magnificence. The way he wields color just envelops you in awe. And it being an oil painting adds so much depth and vibrancy to his work, don't you think?" Their voice was enthusiastic, their eyes drifting back to the canvas, sharing in the moment of artistic reverence with Oona.

"Van Gogh's work has always fascinated you, hasn't it?" Oona ventured, curious about this stranger who shared her appreciation for the artist.

They ran their hand through their blond hair, a hint of color rising to their cheeks. "You could say that," they admitted with a shy smile, extending their hand towards Oona. "I'm Ty."

Oona's fingers met Ty's in a firm, warm handshake. "Oona," she introduced herself.

Ty's gaze lingered on her momentarily before asking gently, "Are you here alone?" The question, simple as it was, stirred something within Oona. The unshed tears from earlier threatened to resurface. She wanted to deny it, to claim she was waiting for someone, but honesty won over. "Yes, I am," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ty shook their head, a determined glint in their eyes. "That simply won't do. How about this? If you're okay with it, I'd be honored to be your museum date for the evening. Everything's more enjoyable when shared, especially art."

The proposition caught Oona off guard, but a smile quickly blossomed, chasing away the shadows of her earlier disappointment. "I'd like that," she said, her voice tinged with a newfound excitement. "Yes, I accept!"

Ty's smile widened, and they offered their arm in a gesture of old-world charm. Oona linked her arm with Ty's, feeling a warm companionship. As they began to stroll through the gallery, Oona felt a lightness she hadn't experienced in a long time. It was as if Ty's presence had reignited a spark within her, transforming the evening from a solitary venture into an unexpected adventure.

Together, they meandered through the exhibit, pausing to admire each piece. The conversation flowed effortlessly between them as they shared thoughts on the art, snippets of their lives, and the occasional laugh. With its warm lights and vibrant paintings, the gallery felt like a world away from the cold, snowy evening outside.

Oona and Ty stood together before Van Gogh's "Sorrowing Old Man (At Eternity's Gate)," enveloped in the palpable aura of the painting's melancholy and despair. The brushstrokes seemed to carry the weight of the old man's grief, each one a testament to his silent suffering. Oona noticed Ty observing the painting with an intensity that suggested a deep, personal understanding of the emotions portrayed.

Oona guessed, seeking to lighten the mood, "With your keen insight into art, you must be an artist yourself?"

Ty turned towards her, a half-smile playing on their lips. "Actually, I'm a physicist."

The response took Oona by surprise. "A physicist? You must be knowledgeable, then!"

Ty gave a noncommittal shrug. "Perhaps. It's more about what my parents expect of me."

Oona's brows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Ty's expression turned contemplative as they closed their eyes briefly as if gathering their thoughts. "Ever since I was young, my parents set high expectations for me. Everything I did had to be perfect. Straight A's, top of the class, trophies always first place. As I got older, the pressure only intensified. Summa Cum Laude in high school was not an achievement but an expectation. Harvard was the only college option they considered acceptable. Failure was not a part of their vocabulary, nor was weakness. I was raised to be strong, flawless."

Ty's voice was calm, but Oona could sense the underlying strain, the weight of years spent under the crushing demand for perfection. It was a heavy burden that echoes the old man's sadness in the painting. Oona felt a surge of empathy for Ty, understanding now the depth behind their thoughtful gaze and the reason they connected so profoundly with Van Gogh's work.

As Oona listened to Ty, a wave of compassion washed over her. "I think that's one of the reasons I'm drawn to Van Gogh's work, too," Ty shared thoughtfully. "He embraced his imperfections, and through his art, he expressed such a raw, unfiltered range of emotions. When you constantly strive for perfection, you start losing touch with your feelings. You become numb, and that numbness... it can lead you into some really dark places."

She noticed Ty absentmindedly rubbing their wrist, a distant look in their eyes as if touching a scar from an old wound. Oona's gaze met Ty's, finding a depth of pain in their emerald green eyes that resonated with her experiences.

"Ty, I am truly sorry you've had to go through that," Oona said softly, her voice laced with sincerity. "It's not fair to you. No one should be held to such an unattainable standard of perfection. It's an impossible task. Hell, my family is far from perfect, too."

Oona's eyes held Ty's, conveying sympathy and a sense of solidarity. Ty gave her a small smile and gently took her hand into theirs. "You don't mind I am not perfect?" they asked.

Oona smiled at them. "Not at all."

Moving away from the somber works, Oona and Ty found themselves before Van Gogh's "Sunflowers," its vibrant yellows and oranges starkly contrasting the earlier melancholy. An interactive arts and crafts table was set up beside the painting, inviting visitors to create sunflower-inspired artwork. Oona's spirits lifted visibly, a childlike excitement twinkling in her eyes as they approached the bright canvas.

"This is my absolute favorite Van Gogh painting!" Oona exclaimed, her gaze fixed on the sunflowers. "Don't you think it's one of the most beautiful pieces ever?"

"I have a soft spot for 'Café Terrace at Night,'" Ty admitted, "but this is indeed beautiful."

Oona turned back to the painting, her voice softening. "My parents and I saw the original in Amsterdam. It was my mom's favorite. She used to say that Van Gogh painted more than one sunflower in a vase because no one, not even flowers, deserves to be alone." As she spoke, she felt Ty's hand gently squeeze hers, a silent gesture of understanding. They shared a glance, their eyes lingering with warmth and companionship.

"Of course, I don't think Van Gogh meant that," Oona added with a light giggle, breaking the momentary intensity.

"Hey, art is subjective!" Ty chimed in, smiling. "It's all about personal interpretation."

Oona's eyes returned to the canvas, her mood turning reflective again. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she whispered, "I just wish she could be here to see this with me. And I wish my dad could have made it like he promised. He knew how much this meant to both Mom and me. When I look at this painting, in a way, it makes me feel less alone."

Lost in her memories, Oona stood motionless before the painting, her mind drifting back to a poignant evening in the hospital. She recalled the poster of Van Gogh's "Sunflowers" on the wall, a beacon of color in the sterile room. She remembered holding her mother's hand tightly, feeling the gradual slip away of her presence, the overwhelming sense of solitude that enveloped her in that final moment. It was a memory etched in her heart, both beautiful and heart-wrenchingly painful.

"Oona?" Ty's voice gently pulled her back from her reverie. Blinking back to the present, Oona noticed Ty holding a paper mache sunflower crafted with delicate care and attention.

Startled, she managed to stammer out, "What's this?"

"It's a reminder," Ty said softly, their voice tinged with empathy. "A reminder that no matter where you are or what you're going through, you're never truly alone."

Oona's heart swelled at the gesture, a warm flush coloring her cheeks. She carefully took the sunflower from Ty. For a moment, she simply gazed at it, absorbing the significance of the gift.

As Oona approached, she hugged Ty tightly, expressing all the unspoken words and signs of affection that had passed between them. It was more than just a hug; it was a confession, a silent promise that surrounded them like a delicate spell. Ty gently kissed the top of Oona's head, making her look up into their warm and inviting eyes. They blushed with the soft hues of dawn.

At that moment, neither of them hesitated. Oona pressed her lips to Ty's, and the world around them seemed to stop. Ty's arms tightened around her, a silent plea woven into the gesture, a fear so visceral that she might vanish into thin air. 

As they stood there in the soft light of the gallery, surrounded by the art that had brought them together, Oona felt a shift within her. The weight of her grief didn't disappear, but it felt lighter, shared. And at that moment, under the watchful gaze of Van Gogh's sunflowers, she realized that this evening, which had started in solitude, had blossomed into something extraordinary.