My Girlfriend, Boyfriend

Name: My Girlfriend, Boyfriend
Rating: 5.0 (1 reviews)

dennisbundi2021

Romance | Ongoing

5.0

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In a world of cracked ceilings and borrowed dreams, Mateo, a struggling artist scraping by on hope and hustle, finds his gray skies lit by Clara-a muralist whose laughter paints color into his life. Together, they craft a fragile future: selling hand-painted ceramics in flea markets, whispering promises of a better life, and clinging to love as their masterpiece. But when Eric, a charismatic patron, offers Clara a golden ticket to the art world's stage, their sunlit bond begins to fracture. Torn between loyalty to Mateo and the allure of ambition, Clara drifts into a glittering world of jasmine perfume and whispered deals, leaving Mateo to question if their love was ever more than a beautiful illusion. Betrayed and shattered, Mateo confronts the ruins of their shared dreams. Through the ashes, he discovers a fiercer truth: art is not just survival, but rebirth. With raw ceramics and charcoal, he crafts a haunting new collection-one that dares to ask, Can love's broken pieces become something stronger than the whole? A poignant tale of sacrifice, ambition, and the quiet resilience of the heart, My Girlfriend, Boyfriend weaves a mosaic of love's fragile beauty and the courage it takes to rebuild from the wreckage.

Family Betrayal Secret relationship

Chapter 8 The Unseen Canvas

05-21 07:16

Chapter 1 First Glimpse

The crowd roared like a living thing, fists and placards punching the air. "KILL THE BILL!" Mateo edged closer to the barricades, his sketchbook pressed to his chest. The government's new austerity package-slashing arts funding, gutting community centers, hiking rents-had turned the city into a pressure cooker. He'd come to document the faces: the single mom waving a "BREAD NOT BONDS" sign, the high schoolers chanting through gas masks, the pensioners in lawn chairs defiantly knitting scarves labeled "WARMTH IS A RIGHT."

Then he saw her.

Clara balanced on the edge of a overturned police van, her overalls streaked with mud and what looked like blood-red ink. She was painting a mural on a bedsheet hung from a lamppost-a skeletal figure in a suit devouring coins, its throat slit by a giant pair of scissors labeled BILL 207. Around it, she'd scrawled: "THEY STARVE US TO FEAST."

"Art isn't pretty!" she shouted to the crowd, her voice hoarse but electric. "It's a mirror! A knife!" A teenager handed her a spray can; she tagged the sheet with a sunflower sprouting from the scissors' blades.

Mateo's pencil raced across the page, shading the desperation in her eyes, the way her braid lashed like a whip as she moved. But as she jumped down, a line of riot cops advanced, shields clanking. The crowd surged backward, knocking Clara into a news van.

He grabbed her elbow, pulling her upright. Her stencil slipped, slicing his palm-a papercut sting. Blood smeared the sunflower on her mural.

"Nice save," she said, eyeing his sketchbook. Her hands were stained with ink and what smelled like vinegar (a tear gas remedy, he'd read online). "You here to sketch or fight?"

"Both, maybe." He nodded at her mural. "They'll just tear it down."

She grinned, wild and unapologetic. "Then I'll paint it again tomorrow. On their offices, their cars-everywhere." She ripped a page from his sketchbook, scribbled her number, and tucked it into his jacket. "Come help me. Art's louder with two."

Before he could reply, a canister hissed. Smoke plumed. Clara yanked a bandana over her mouth and threw him one. "Stick close!"

They ducked into a subway entrance, protesters streaming past them. Clara's laughter cut through the chaos. "You're bleeding on your shirt."

Mateo glanced at his palm. The cut mirrored the slit in her mural's corporate ghoul. "Worth it."

She arched a brow. "Romanticizing struggle? Careful, Picasso."

"Says the girl who used her own blood as paint."

"Touché." She pulled a marker from her boot and drew a tiny scissors-and-sunflower on his wrist. "There. Now you're a co-conspirator."

Later, in his apartment, Mateo stared at the doodle. The community center where he volunteered-where his late mother had once served meals-was on the bill's chopping block. He flipped open his sketchbook, adding Clara to his gallery of fighters and survivors. Her defiance felt like a match struck in the dark.

But as he sketched, the news played in the background: "...Bill 207 passes preliminary vote..." Outside, a helicopter bathed the streets in cold white light. He traced the scissors on his wrist, wondering if defiance was enough.