He came in with coffee and a small paper bag that smelled like pastries, and he set them down beside his brushes like they mattered just as much.
He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at me.
Not like someone checking out a body. Not like that. He looked at me like he was trying to see if I was still here, if I had changed my mind in the silence.
“I didn’t think you’d stay,” he said.
“I almost didn’t,” I replied.
“Why did you?”
I shrugged and glanced at the canvas. “Curiosity, maybe.”
“Curiosity is dangerous.”
“So is art.”
That made him smile. A real smile, soft and warm, like it slipped out before he could stop it. He picked up his brush again but didn’t return to the canvas.
The silence between us grew thicker, but not heavy. It felt full. Full of everything we hadn’t said
