I hadn’t planned on painting today, but something inside me had shifted, urging me to create. Maybe it was the culmination of the week’s work, or maybe it was the anticipation of seeing Ethan later. Whatever it was, I needed to put it on canvas.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I arranged my paints around me, the colors calling to me in a way that felt almost instinctual. I didn’t have a clear picture in my mind of what I wanted to paint, but that didn’t matter. Today, I wanted to let go of structure and just let my emotions guide me. I reached for a brush, dipping it into a soft shade of blue.
As the brush moved across the canvas, I let myself get lost in the rhythm of the strokes, the colors blending and flowing together. Blues melted into greens, which softened into blush pinks and warm, earthy tones. The shapes and lines weren’t precise. They were fluid, almost ethereal, like the emotions I’d been holding inside for weeks were finally spilling out in a language that only the canvas could understand.
Time slipped away as I painted, the morning turning into mid-morning without me noticing. The coffee in my mug had long since cooled, but I didn’t care. I was lost in the act of creation, my heart and hands working together to bring this piece to life.
When I finally leaned back to look at what I’d done, I felt a swell of satisfaction. The painting was different from my usual work, but it was agooddifferent. It felt right. It felt like me—likeus. The abstract shapes and soft hues spoke of a connection that was still unfolding, still finding its form, but that was undeniablythere.
I was just admiring the finished piece when I heard a soft knock at the door. My heart skipped a beat, excitement flaring as I realized it must be Ethan. I glanced at the clock that read 11 A.M, and I quickly wiped my hands on a rag but, as I stood up, a sudden wave of nerves washed over me. I looked down at myself. I was still in my messy paint-stained outfit, and my hair was pulled into a loose, haphazard bun, with stray tendrils falling around my face.
With a deep breath, I made my way to the door and opened it. I was greeted by the sight of Ethan standing on the porch, and my breath caught at how effortlessly handsome he looked. He was wearing a soft, plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned, and worn like a jacket over a crisp white T-shirt that hugged his chest just right. The flannel’s sleeves were casually rolled up, revealing his strong forearms, and the shirt hung loosely. His well-worn jeans fit him perfectly, sitting low on his hips, and a pair of sturdy boots completed the look, giving him that rugged edge that made my pulse quicken.
There was a playful glint in his hazel eyes, and I noticed he was holding something behind his back, but I was too distracted by how good he looked to focus on what it might be.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice warm and inviting. His gaze swept over me, taking in my paint-splattered outfit and the smudge on my face, but instead of looking put off, his smile only widened. “Hope I’m not too early?”
“Not at all,” I replied, feeling a little flustered. In my attempt to remove the paint from my cheek, I ended up smearing it even more. “Sorry about the mess. I was painting.”
Ethan chuckled, his eyes twinkling with affection as he stepped closer. “Here, let me help,” he said gently, leaning in. He reached up with his thumb, brushing it lightly across my cheek to wipe away the smudge.
“There,” he murmured, his voice low as he pulled back, but not before our eyes met. “All better. And for the record, you look adorable with a little paint on you.”
My nerves eased at his words, but I couldn’t help but feel a little flustered. “Come in,” I said, stepping aside to let him enter. “Just, um, give me a minute to change.”
As Ethan walked past me, he revealed what he had been hiding behind his back—a charming bouquet of rustic, seasonal fall flowers. The arrangement was a perfect mix of deep oranges, warm yellows, and soft browns, with sprigs of wheat and dried grasses woven in. It was simple yet beautiful, the kind of bouquet that looked like it had been gathered from a sunlit meadow.
“These are for you,” he said, his voice soft as he handed them to me. There was a touch of shyness in his smile, as if he wasn’t sure how I’d react.
I took the flowers, my heart melting at the thoughtful gesture. “They’re beautiful, Ethan,” I murmured, a smile tugging at my lips.
“They made me think of you,” he shrugged, his gaze meeting mine with that familiar warmth that always made me feel at ease.
A flutter of warmth spread through me at his words. “Thank you. This is really sweet.”
He smiled, his eyes lighting up as he watched me. “Worth it, just to see that smile on your face.”
Blushing, I hugged the bouquet to my chest, feeling my heart skip a beat. “I’ll just put these in water and change real quick,” I said, trying to calm the sudden rush of emotions. I gestured for him to make himself comfortable in the living room.
He walked past me, his presence filling my small space in a way that felt both new and completely natural. I watched him as he took in my personal sanctuary, filled with canvases, brushes, and the little things that made it mine. There was a quiet reverence in the way he moved, as if he understood how much this place had come to mean to me.
Seeing Ethan in my space felt right, but it also made me feel exposed, like he was stepping into a part of me I’d kept hidden from the world. I waited for any sign of judgment, but all I saw was curiosity.
I dashed to my bedroom to change, heart racing with excitement and a twinge of anxiety. What if clothes were scattered on the floor? Or dirty dishes in the sink? The thought of Ethan seeing any mess hurried me. As I pulled on fresh jeans and a soft sweater, I tried to push the worries aside. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d think of my space. I heard his footsteps in the living room, and hoped he wouldn’t stumble upon anything embarrassing.
When I returned, I found him standing in front of one of my paintings. It was the last piece I had done in Cresden, just before Sebastian and I broke up. The painting was bold, full of vivid colors and abstract forms, a chaotic mix that mirrored the turbulence of my relationship with him. I had planned to take it to the gallery next week along with my other works, but I hadn’t gotten around to wrapping it yet, so it remained in the living room—a reminder of a chapter I was ready to close.
Ethan turned as I approached, his eyes filled with genuine appreciation. “This is beautiful, Vinnie. There’s so muchemotion in it.”
I smiled, a mix of pride and vulnerability washing over me. This piece held so much of my past, so many raw emotions. “Thank you. What do you really think of it, though? How does it make you feel?” I asked, hoping for an honest reaction. His opinion mattered to me, and I wondered if he could see beyond the bold colors and abstract forms, to the feelings that had inspired it.
He glanced back at the painting, brow furrowing in thought. “It feels . . . intense. Like there’s a lot going on beneath the surface. The colors almost seem to be in conflict, but they’re also creating something striking and powerful.” He chuckled softly, adding, “I’m no art critic.”
I laughed, appreciating his effort. “Not bad, Ethan. Not bad at all. Honestly, I’ve never created art for critics, anyway. I create it for everyone. For anyone who sees it and feels something, whatever that might be.”
He smiled, visibly relieved, and turned to face me fully, leaning against the wall in a relaxed, attentive stance. “Tell me the meaning behind it. What were you feeling when you painted this?” His eyes were earnest.
I took a deep breath. This was a poignant moment—letting Ethan in on a part of my past that I hadn’t thought about in a while. But my history with Sebastian was part of who I was, and sharing it with Ethan felt like the right step.
