I had already forgotten what had happened earlier when I got to the museum.

The ivory-colored building was tinged with warm gold as the sun started to set. The museum's grand façade gleamed in the fading light, and its majestic pillars and carvings stood out against the deepening blue of the evening sky.

Around me, a diverse crowd mingled—artists, critics, patrons, and curious onlookers, each with their own reasons for attending. Reporters clustered around well-known figures from the creative industry, their cameras flashing and questions flying, highlighting the prestige and attention lavished on visual artists.

It's no surprise that they'll be here. After all, art is undervalued so much in this country that only a small percentage could receive such recognition from the masses and get invited to such events. So little that I could name every person who's invited here right now. I was lucky enough to be one of them.

Then, again, I'm still questioning why I'm invited to an event showcasing visual and graphic art. It's not like people came here to stop and read a few text paragraphs amid paintings and sculptures. It makes me feel a bit out of place.

Ahh... what do I do?

Lost in my thoughts, a small hand suddenly tugged at the hem of my coat. Startled, I looked down to find a young girl with curious eyes gazing up at me. Her face was flushed with excitement.

"Mister, are you a prince?"

"What?"

The question caught me off guard, and I blinked in surprise at the young girl standing before me. The small girl looked no more than seven or eight years old, staring up at me with wide, curious eyes. Her face was framed by tousled curls, and an innocent grin played on her lips.

"Oh, uh... no, I'm not a prince," I replied awkwardly as I crouched down to her eye level, trying to muster a smile for her.

The girl tilted her head. "But you look like a prince," she insisted with unwavering confidence.

Her innocent comment caught me off guard, momentarily distracting me from my thoughts. The corners of my lips twitched upward involuntarily as I looked at her.

"Well, thank you." I chuckled softly, unsure of how to respond to her earnest declaration. "What makes you think I look like a prince?"

"You just... look like one," she said with a small shrug as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"...You think so?"

For my part, I don't look all that great right now. I didn't really care about how I looked before coming here, but kids don't lie, do they?

Sofia nodded enthusiastically, her curls bouncing with her excitement. "Yes! You have pretty eyes like princes do, and you're wearing a fancy coat," she explained, pointing to my slightly worn but once-refined coat.

I couldn't help but chuckle softly at Sofia's explanation. "Well, thank you. You're very kind," I said warmly, though I was feeling uneasy for some reason.

Just then, a voice called out from the crowd. "Sofia! There you are!" A woman, presumably her mother, appeared, looking relieved and slightly exasperated.

"Mommy, I was just talking to the prince!" Sofia exclaimed, pointing at me with a wide smile.

The woman glanced at me with an apologetic look, but her eyes softened when she saw Sofia's excitement. "I'm sorry if she bothered you," she said, reaching for Sofia's hand.

"No bother at all," I reassured her. "Sofia was just keeping me company."

The woman smiled appreciatively. "Well, we should get going. Come on, Sofia. Say goodbye to the nice man."

"Goodbye, Mister Prince!" Sofia waved enthusiastically, and I waved back with a genuine smile.

"Goodbye, Princess Sofia. Take care," I replied, watching as they disappeared into the crowd.

As I turned back to the museum entrance, the fleeting warmth from my encounter with Sofia and her mother faded, replaced by a sudden and intense heaviness in my chest.

For a moment, I leaned against the museum wall and steadied myself by taking slow breaths. With its intricate carvings and pillars, the museum's exterior towered over me, casting long shadows in the waning evening light. I couldn't get rid of the discomfort I was feeling in spite of the beauty all around me.

The truth was, being around people—strangers, even—often left me feeling like I was doing something that I was not supposed to.

I don't know why I'm this way, so I can't even begin to understand it. I was having a great time my entire life, and I was doing very well at putting down all of my thoughts in my stories. Even though I realized my dream, I had a strange feeling one day, and things escalated from that point on.

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I don't remember how or why. Again and again, I tried to understand and remember what could potentially lead me to be like this, but I was always left with nothing but pills that could only help me rest and forget about what I couldn't afford to recall.

Every search only drifted me away from who I once was.

With a heavy sigh, I pushed myself away from the wall and forced myself to focus on the task at hand. I needed to get through this evening, fulfill my obligations, and perhaps find some solace in the art that will surround me.

Taking tentative steps, the pill bottle jingled in my bag as I entered the museum. The grandeur of the main hall greeted me once more, but now it felt imposing rather than inviting.

Apate didn't tell me where he'd find me, so it wouldn't hurt if I explored for a while. So, I wandered aimlessly through the exhibitions, trying to absorb the beauty and creativity on display.

The museum was a labyrinth of hallways and galleries, each filled with stunning artwork that seemed to breathe life into the room. Paintings, sculptures, and installations drew the attention of the people around me.

I moved from one gallery to another until I found myself standing in front of a large painting. In fact, it's a painting that is so well-known that nobody could fail to recognize it.

Before my eyes, the canvas is dominated by swirls of midnight blue that spin and swirl like a raging sea. Bright yellow and white orbs punctuate the darkness, depicting stars ablaze in the night sky. A peaceful village below is bathed in a silvery glow as a crescent moon lingers low. And there, surrounded by heavenly bodies, stood the enormous cypress tree, its black form contrasting with the dazzling sky.

The painting, of course, is none other than Vincent van Gogh's "Starry Night," a masterpiece that has captivated countless souls over the years. I always found this painting mesmerizing, no matter how many times I looked at it. The vivid use of color, the play of light and shadow, and the deft brushwork all combined to portray both peace and turmoil are all perfect to me.

"...And this is the famous "Starry Night" by Van Gogh," a small group of visitors gathered beside me whispered, their voices filled with awe and admiration. From there, the tour guide began to share the painting's history, its significance, and the artist's turbulent life. I listened with half an ear, my attention divided between the guide's words and the hypnotic pull of the painting itself.

To be honest, I've always enjoyed reading and writing more than the visual arts. In my opinion, a writer's words are like a painting that readers have painted themselves. They carry a story and a world within them, but they leave enough room for interpretation that the reader can immerse themselves in the narrative, envisioning scenes, characters, and emotions in their own unique way.

Paintings are the same in a way, except you can only interpret what the artist has already laid out in front of you. I loved having the opportunity to craft stories that readers' imaginations and hearts were stirred by, in ways that visual art occasionally found difficult to do.

Yet, this painting has always held a special place in my heart. Its emotional depth and ethereal beauty appear to go beyond just painting on canvas. I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I hardly paid attention to the tour guide's whispers or how the people around me shifted.

Just then, a voice cut me off from my thoughts. "Excuse me, sir. Are you enjoying the painting?"

Startled, I turned to see a short, middle-aged man standing beside me, his eyes curious and his demeanor friendly. He wore a casual suit, suggesting he might be a museum staff member or perhaps a fellow enthusiast.

"Yes, very much so," I replied, offering a small smile. "It's hard not to be captivated by Van Gogh's 'Starry Night.'"

The man nodded, his gaze lingering on the painting. "Indeed, it's one of the museum's prized possessions. People from all over come to see it."

"It's not hard to see why," I said, gesturing towards the vibrant canvas. "The way he captures the night sky, the swirling stars, and that hauntingly beautiful village below—it's like stepping into a dream."

The man chuckled softly. "You have a way with words, sir. Are you an art critic or a writer, perhaps?"

I hesitated for a moment, caught off guard by the question. "I'm a writer," I admitted finally, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "Though I must confess, visual art isn't my usual focus."

"...A writer? Ah, are you Avel Canosa?"

I froze, my heart skipping a beat at the mention of my name. How did he know who I was? Was I that recognizable, even here among the crowds of art enthusiasts?

"Yes, I am," I replied cautiously, studying the man's face for any hint of recognition or intent.

With a joyful expression, the man turned to face me and said, "I've been looking for you. It's been a while since I heard from the author of 'The Sin of Being Me'. I might say, your novel left quite an impression on me."

My pulse quickened at the unexpected recognition. "You've read my work?" I asked.

"I may have only read the summary of it," he admitted, "but it intrigued me enough to want to meet the mind behind it."

Oh. Well, at least he wasn't a die-hard fan of dissecting every page. "Thank you. I'm glad it caught your interest."

The man extended his hand. "Angelo Dimagiba, the curator of this fine establishment."

I shook his hand, feeling a little bit more at ease. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Dimagiba. I assumed you were the one who offered an invitation to me for the event that would happen in a few minutes..."

Noticing my hesitation, Mr. Dimagiba chuckled softly. "Yes, indeed. I was hoping you'd grace us with your presence tonight. We've been anticipating your arrival since one of our special guests wanted to invite you."

One of the special guests? Then, that means...

"That special guest might be Apate de los Reyes," I said with an odd feeling rising in my chest.

"You're right. Though it took some time, today is important because it's his first public appearance in the industry. Actually, he invited you here for a surprise!"

"A surprise?" I echoed, unable to hide my caution.

"Yes."

"Apate de los Reyes," I repeated thoughtfully, trying to recall if I had come across that name in any literary circles or artistic events. "I'm not familiar with him. Is he new to the industry?"

Mr. Dimagiba had a contemplative look as he nodded. "Relatively new, yes. He's been making waves recently, particularly in certain artistic circles. Though it took a while, today is his first public appearance in the industry. He's quite... unique, I'd say."

What a cryptic answer.

What was "unique" about him? Did Apate's eccentricities or his creative vision gain him popularity? I wondered if this surprise was related to my work or if it was something completely unanticipated. In any case, I'll find out quickly enough.

"I see," I replied carefully, not wanting to reveal too much of my uncertainty. "Well, I'm interested to see what this surprise is about."

Mr. Dimagiba smiled knowingly. "I'm sure you'll find it interesting. Apate has a way of surprising people."

With that enigmatic statement hanging in the air, Mr. Dimagiba glanced at his watch. "Ah, it seems the moment is almost upon us. Shall we proceed to where the main event awaits?"

"...Yes, let's go."

As Mr. Dimagiba and I walked through the museum's corridors towards the designated event area, my mind buzzed with curiosity and apprehension. The hum of voices grew louder as we approached a grand hall adorned with contemporary sculptures and avant-garde installations.

There are red curtains that cordoned off a section at the far end of the hall, and as we drew closer, I noticed a small gathering of people already assembled near the curtains, their murmurs blending with the ambient sounds of the museum.

As we approached, I caught glimpses of familiar faces among the crowd—artists I vaguely recognized from magazines and online platforms, critics whose sharp analyses I'd read, and a few well-dressed patrons who exuded an aura of wealth and influence.

Standing near the curtains, Mr. Dimagiba turned to me with a reassuring smile. "I believe that you'll need to wait first until it's Mr. De los Reyes' turn to exhibit his artwork. Are you willing to wait, Mr. Canosa?"

I nodded with a sigh. "It's fine. I'll wait."

Mr. Dimagiba smiled at me and went to mingle with the other guests. From then on, the evening began with several artists showcasing their most recent works, to courteous applause and murmurs of appreciation from the audience for each. The pieces of art were stunning, ranging from complex sculptures to abstract paintings, but the more I waited, the more I started to yawn.

Just who in the world is this guy? One day, he decided to contact my personal phone number out of nowhere, claimed to be a fan of my work, and later on turned out to be an uprising artist who wanted to surprise me.

As the presentations continued, I found myself glancing around the room, searching for any sign of Apate. I mean, I'm not sure what he looks like, but maybe if I could see someone staring at me, I could figure it out.

The emcee eventually announced Apate's turn after what seemed like an eternity before the room fell silent. The curtains were drawn back to reveal a large, draped object in the center of the stage.

Mr. Dimagiba, now standing by the object, addressed the audience with a warm smile. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to introduce our final presentation for the evening. This piece has been created by the talented and enigmatic Apate de los Reyes, an artist whose work continues to challenge and inspire us."

A murmur of anticipation swept through the audience as Mr. Dimagiba stepped aside, giving a signal to an assistant who carefully approached the draped object. The assistant grasped the edge of the cloth and, with a flourish, pulled it away to reveal the artwork beneath.

Gasps and whispers filled the air as the audience took in the sight before them, and I was taken aback by what I saw.