Oxuanna’s throat tightened. “I didn’t think you’d care.”
“You could have told me you were hurting,” Gia said quietly.
That night, after everyone had gone home, Oxuanna returned to the square. She carried a can of black paint. Her hand shook as she pried the lid off. She doesn’t deserve this, Oxuanna told herself. No one works that hard and stays that happy. It’s fake. It has to be. gia love and oxuanna envy
Gia read it twice, then folded it carefully into her pocket. She didn’t tell anyone what had almost happened. Instead, she found Oxuanna at lunch, sat down across from her, and said nothing for a long while. Then she offered her half of an orange.
“I care,” Gia said. “I just didn’t know.” Oxuanna’s throat tightened
Instead, she stood there, staring at the mural—at the flowers Gia had painted with such care, each petal distinct. And for the first time, Oxuanna saw not Gia’s luck, but Gia’s labor. The hours. The patience. The love.
The next morning, Gia found a small note tucked beneath the mural’s frame. It read: I wanted to ruin this. I’m sorry. —O. She carried a can of black paint
Gia Love moved through the world like a beam of sunlight—warm, steady, impossible to ignore. She didn’t try to be the center of attention; she simply was . Her laugh came easily, her kindness was instinctive, and people naturally gravitated toward her. At seventeen, she had everything: a close-knit family, loyal friends, and a quiet confidence that needed no validation.