They had been invited to two openings on a Saturday night. One was nearby and expected, already absorbed into routine and recognition, where faces would register them and presence would reassure. The other was farther away, quieter, marked only by a brief message left open, held in a space run by the gallerist friend of an acquaintance, where attendance was neither assumed nor required. Either way meant leaving the apartment, driving into the evening, stepping once more into a public rhythm they knew well. What tipped the balance was not effort, but gravity. The familiar pulled more easily.

The choice settled quickly. Showing up where relationships were already in place felt responsible, even generous. It was the path that asked the least explanation. What it did not ask for, she realised later, was attention.

The next morning, they sat at the local café across their condominium. Toast arrived warm, butter softening into the bread, jam spread without ceremony. Tea steamed between them. As she scrolled idly, the other opening began to surface online, carried by people they trusted in the arts community. Artists, writers, organisers whose attention was hard to earn. The responses were measured but unmistakably warm, describing an exhibition shaped with clarity and restraint, anchored by new work that felt assured without strain, reopening curiosity rather than closing it. The tone carried something rare. A sense that the scene had shifted.

What had first drawn them toward exhibitions returned to her then. The pleasure of being surprised. The quiet thrill of encountering new minds. The feeling of stepping outside familiar circles and letting the work speak back. Familiarity had offered reassurance. Something else had been set aside.