Auction of Feelings Chapter 4: When Self-Worth Takes the Stage

The college’s main hall had transformed into an art gallery tonight. Spotlights cast bright beams across the space, velvet curtains hung heavy and rich, and cocktail tables were lined up, holding cartons of orange juice. Yet everyone knew this was far more than just a charity exhibition — it was a battlefield.

Zara served as the invited curator. Dressed in a striking red dress with her hair pulled up into an elegant high bun, she moved through the crowd with practiced grace. She smiled warmly at the dean and the sponsors, but whenever her gaze fell upon our table, that smile sharpened into something cold and cutting, like a blade.

She had selected five artworks for the auction: two of her own pieces, one created by her favourite protégé, and three from us. She had no choice but to include our work, for Puan Lina — a former national artist and the event’s main sponsor — had come across our paintings during a studio visit the previous week. “I don’t care about flawless technique,” she had said firmly. “What I look for is feeling, emotion, and truth.”

Our three pieces hung side by side, each carrying its own story:

1. Evening Light – A portrait of Raven, painted by me. Rendered in charcoal and soft pastels, the depth of his dimples captured on the canvas was so vivid it made passersby stop in their tracks, mesmerised.

2. Second Breath – Thalia, framed against the billowing smoke of a burning storage room, painted by Raven. Done in oil paints, Thalia’s eyes in the painting held a fierce, unyielding strength — as though she had only just survived a deadly struggle and emerged victorious.

3. Twin Pencils – My own hands, covered by fingerless gloves, with two drawing pencils tucked neatly beside the edge of my long headscarf, painted by Thalia. Made with acrylics, the composition was simple and understated, yet many whispered that it carried a quiet, sacred weight — as if it were a prayer brought to life.

And then there were Zara’s works: Rose Without Thorns and Glass Crown. Technically flawless and undeniably beautiful, they were works of art in every formal sense, yet they felt hollow — cold, distant, and devoid of any real heart or soul.

The auctioneer stepped onto the stage, his voice ringing clearly through the hall. “We shall begin the bidding, with a starting price of RM2,000. All proceeds raised tonight will go directly to the foundation supporting children battling cancer.”

Zara’s first work was brought forward. Bids rose steadily: RM2,000… RM2,500… RM3,200. Then it stopped. A thin, self-satisfied smile touched her lips as the gavel fell.

Her second piece followed shortly after, selling for RM3,800, met with loud applause and admiration. She glanced toward us, her gaze challenging and triumphant, as if to say: You will never reach this height.

Next up was Twin Pencils, Thalia’s painting. The auctioneer raised the microphone and announced, “This work is by Thalia, titled Twin Pencils. Bidding is now open.”

Silence stretched for two long, heavy seconds. Then, a voice rose from the back of the hall. “RM2,500.”

All heads turned in surprise. It was Pak Samad, the night security guard. He shifted awkwardly, a shy smile crossing his face. “I find myself drawn to these hands,” he explained gently. “They remind me of my daughter’s hands — she too loves to draw and create art.”

“RM3,000!” called out one of the lecturers, his voice full of enthusiasm.

“RM3,500!” Puan Lina raised her bidding paddle, her expression calm and assured.

Zara’s face paled. A painting created by the “heavy-set girl in the long headscarf” was already fetching a higher price than either of her own masterpieces.

Finally, the gavel struck. “Sold for RM4,200!”

Thalia gripped my hand tight enough to make my fingers ache, her voice bubbling with excitement. “Four thousand two hundred ringgit, my dear! Can you believe it?”

Then came Second Breath, Raven’s painting. The atmosphere shifted instantly, becoming thicker and more intense. People gazed at the swirling smoke and the intense, determined look in Thalia’s eyes, some whispering quiet prayers, others feeling a lump rise in their throats as the raw emotion hit them.

“RM4,000,” Puan Lina opened the bidding immediately, showing no hesitation.

“RM4,500,” offered a doctor from the affiliated hospital.

“RM5,000,” a deep voice sounded from the far end of the hall. Everyone turned to see a man in his early forties, dressed in a sharp grey suit. He simply nodded toward Raven, and we later learned he was the owner of a prestigious private art gallery in Kuala Lumpur.

Zara clenched her hands, crumpling the program leaflet in her grasp as the bids continued climbing, eventually reaching RM6,800 before the work was sold. It received the loudest and longest round of applause of the entire evening. Raven bowed humbly, yet his eyes searched the crowd until they met mine. A small, private smile curved his lips — meant only for me.

And then, finally, it was time for Evening Light — my painting.

A strange, heavy silence fell over the hall, different from anything before. People leaned forward, eager to get a closer look. Under the bright spotlights, every charcoal stroke seemed to hold a life of its own; the lines forming Raven’s dimples looked so realistic it felt as though he might step right out of the canvas at any moment.

“I feel like he’s about to walk right out of the frame,” whispered a junior student nearby, awestruck.

The auctioneer cleared his throat, visibly nervous. “Bidding begins at RM2,000.”

“RM3,000!” came a quick reply.

“RM4,500!” another followed immediately.

“RM6,000!” Puan Lina did not hold back. She knew the true value of what lay before her.

Unable to bear it any longer, Zara raised her bidding paddle. “RM6,500.”

The entire room turned to look at her in shock. It was unheard of — a curator bidding on their own exhibition pieces. Yet, strictly speaking, there was no rule that said she could not.

Raven, standing beside me, stiffened instantly. His hands curled into tight fists, his knuckles turning white.

“RM7,000,” the man in the grey suit called out calmly, unfazed.

“RM7,500!” Zara countered, her voice rising higher, sharp with determination.

I lowered my gaze, nervously twisting the hem of my headscarf. I thought back to my previous life, where none of my drawings had ever been worth more than fifty ringgit, and even then, no one had truly appreciated them. Now, the same hands, the same skills, were being fought over.

“RM8,000,” announced Puan Lina firmly.

Zara was about to raise her hand again, but Puan Lina turned to face her directly, her tone steady and clear, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Zara, as the curator of this event, are you truly willing to pay this much for a piece of art you once described as ‘awkward and clumsy, especially around the neck area’?”

A collective murmur swept through the crowd, a quiet “Oh…” rippling across the room. Caught in her own trap, Zara sank back into her chair, her face burning bright red with humiliation and anger.

“RM8,500,” the man in the grey suit declared, bringing the bidding to a close. “This piece belongs to my gallery now. And I would very much like to meet the artist behind it later this evening.”

Sold.

My knees felt weak, as though they might give way at any moment. Thalia threw her arms around me, screaming in pure joy and triumph. But Raven… Raven did not embrace me. Instead, he gently pulled me toward the side of the stage, where the heavy curtains offered a little privacy and shielded us from the crowd’s watchful eyes.

“Why?” I asked, my voice trembling, overwhelmed by everything happening around me. “I won, didn’t I?”

He placed both hands firmly on my shoulders, his gaze locking onto mine, refusing to let me look away. Standing at 185 centimetres tall, he bent down low until our eyes were level. “Because I can no longer stand by and watch others place a price tag on you.”

My heart seemed to stop beating entirely, time standing still in that small space between us.

“I do not care if someone bids eight thousand or eighty-five thousand ringgit,” Raven continued, his voice soft yet steady, every word clear and deliberate. “That painting holds my face, yes — but you are the one who gave it life. Every line, every shadow, every bit of soul in that work came from you. And I am tired of merely being the subject of your art. I no longer wish to be just a figure you draw from a distance. I want to be…”

Suddenly, the curtain was pulled aside. Zara stood there, her eyes glistening, though not with sadness — this was rage, mixed with deep humiliation and envy.

“You think you have won, don’t you?” she spat out, her voice shaking. “You are nothing but a lucky girl who got a second chance. Do you really believe I don’t know the truth?”

The world around me seemed to go quiet, sounds fading into a dull hum. Thalia, who had just caught up to us, quickly grabbed my arm protectively, while Raven stepped forward, instinctively positioning himself in front of me like a shield.

“What did you say?” Raven’s voice dropped low, turning cold and dangerous.

A bitter, crooked smile appeared on Zara’s face as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Last year, when I was in a terrible car accident… I too saw things. I saw you die — wearing that long headscarf, gone forever. I saw Thalia die in the laboratory fire. And I saw myself — winning every competition, hosting grand exhibitions, gaining fame and praise, yet remaining completely and utterly alone. No true friends, no real connections. Then you came back and changed everything. You took it all away from me!” She pointed a shaking finger directly at me. “You rewrote fate and stole every opportunity that was meant to be mine!”

I felt the blood drain from my face. My greatest secret, the truth I had guarded so carefully, was known to her all along.

“That is why I wanted to see you fall,” Zara confessed, her voice breaking. “Because in that first life I witnessed, I was successful yet empty inside. But this time, seeing you have everything… I wanted to feel whole too, even if I had to hurt you to get there.”

Raven turned to look at me, his expression calm — no trace of fear or shock, only understanding. He asked a single, quiet question: “Did you save us because you returned from the past?”

I nodded slowly, tears spilling over and soaking into the deep navy fabric of my headscarf. “I just couldn’t bear the thought of losing you all over again. I didn’t want anyone I care about to die a second time.”

Raven took a long, deep breath. Then, he did something I never expected. He pulled me close and wrapped his arms tightly around me, holding me against his chest. The scent of oil paints mixed with his natural fragrance filled my senses, making my head spin and my heart race.

“If that is the very reason you were brought back,” he whispered softly, pressing his cheek against the top of my head, “then I thank God every single day that you were given this second chance.”

He pulled back slightly, placing both hands gently against my face, wiping away my tears with his thumbs. My gloves were damp from crying. “I don’t want to bid for you like you are some object or artwork. I simply want you. Is that alright?”

Thalia stood nearby, already crying happy tears while secretly recording the moment on her phone. “Wow! A confession right in the middle of an auction? This is priceless, the most beautiful scene ever!”

Zara watched us for a long moment, her expression shifting from anger to exhaustion and sorrow. Eventually, a broken, hollow laugh escaped her lips. She lowered her head, looking defeated. “Fine then. Take it all. Take every victory, every success, every moment of happiness.” She unclipped the pin holding her hair up, letting it fall loose around her shoulders, and placed it on a nearby table. “I am tired of being the villain in this story. I am tired of fighting against fate and against you.” Without another word, she turned and walked away, leaving the hall and never looking back.

Puan Lina approached us, patting my shoulder gently with a warm smile. “That painting sold for eight thousand five hundred ringgit, but let me tell you — it is worth far more. Your courage, your kindness, and your heart… those are things money can never buy.”

Later that night, the man in the grey suit handed me his business card. “I would like to organise a solo exhibition for you next year,” he said. “And I already know the perfect title: The Second Line.”

I turned to look at Raven. He reached out, extending his hand toward me. “Walk this path of the second line with me,” he asked softly. “Together?”

I didn’t answer with words. Instead, I reached into my pocket, took out yet another pencil — this time a sharp 3H — and carefully tucked it beside the other two already resting near my headscarf. Now there were three: one to fight against fate and fear, one to create beauty and meaning, and one to symbolise this newfound love and connection.

He laughed, his dimples appearing once again as he laced his fingers through mine. Together, we walked out of the hall, with Thalia squeezing happily between us, making playful faces and beaming with pure joy.

In this second life, every debt had been paid in full. From this moment forward, we would write our own story, draw our own path, and define our own worth.

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