“It’s just a sketch,” I say, but I can’t hide my pleasure at his reaction.
“It’s beautiful. I had no idea you could draw like this.” He looks up at me, and there’s something almost awed in his expression. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Since I was little. My nonna taught me when I was five or six. She said it was important to create beautiful things in a world that could be so ugly.” The memory makes me smile, one of the few purely happy recollections from my childhood. “She used to sneak me art supplies when my parents weren’t looking.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“She was. The only person in my family who ever really saw me, you know? She died when I was twelve, and I think that’s when I really started to understand how alone I was.”
Carlo’s expression grows soft with sympathy. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. She gave me something precious before she left. A way to make beauty even when everything else is falling apart.” I flip through a few pages of the sketchbook, showing him other drawings. “She used to say that art was how we put love into the world where everyone could see it.”
The pages reveal study after study of Carlo in various poses and moods. Sleeping, thinking, that intense expression he gets when he’s listening to something important. I’ve captured him in charcoal and pencil, watercolor and ink, each medium chosen to highlight different aspects of his beauty.
“These are all me,” he says, wonder and something that might be touch of vulnerability in his voice.
“I couldn’t draw anything else if I tried,” I admit. “You’re all I see when I close my eyes. All I want to see.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, studying the drawings with an intensity that makes me nervous. What if he thinks it’s too much? What if the sheer volume of my obsession finally frightens him?
“I’ve never been anyone’s muse before,” he says finally, and his voice is so soft I almost miss it.
“You’re not just my muse. You’re my everything. My inspiration, my purpose, my reason for creating anything beautiful.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, raw and honest and probably far too intense for a morning conversation. “I know it’s overwhelming, but I can’t help it. Loving you makes me want to fill the world with art.”
“Show me more,” he says quietly.
I flip to the beginning of the sketchbook, where the earliest drawings live. These are rougher, more desperate, created during those first days when I was still terrified he’d somehow escape before I could make him understand. But they show the progression, the way my artwork has grown softer and more tender as our relationship has deepened.
“This one was from our first morning together,” I explain, pointing to a sketch of him sleeping. “You looked so peaceful, and I was so afraid you’d wake up and hate me. I wanted to capture that moment before everything changed.”
“And this one?”
“The day after you let me shave you. You were starting to trust me, and I could see it in your face. The way you weren’t quite as tense when I touched you.”
We go through page after page, and I find myself telling stories about each drawing. The emotions I was feeling, the tiny moments of progress I was celebrating, the way my understanding of his character has deepened with each careful observation.
“You see things I don’t even know about myself,” Carlo says when we reach the most recent pages. “This expression here, I had no idea I ever looked like that.”
“That’s from yesterday, when you asked me to sing. You looked like you were seeing something wonderful for the first time.”
“I was.”
The simple words make my chest tight with emotion. This is what I’ve always dreamed of, sharing my art with someone who understands it, who sees the love I pour into every line and appreciates it instead of dismissing it as frivolous nonsense.
“I want to paint you too,” I say, already imagining the possibilities. “Oils, watercolors, maybe even try my hand at pastels. I want to capture you in every medium, show the world how beautiful you are.”
“The world?”
“Well, maybe not the world exactly. But someday, when we have our own place, I want to fill it with art. Portraits of you, landscapes of places we’ve been together, still lifes of objects that remind me of happy moments.” I close the sketchbook and clutch it to my chest. “I want our home to be a gallery of our love story.”
Carlo reaches out and touches my face, his fingers gentle against my cheek. “That’s very sweet, Ginni.”
The validation makes me want to cry with happiness. All my life, my artistic impulses have been treated as embarrassing quirks at best, evidence of fundamental wrongness at worst. But Carlo sees them as gifts, as expressions of something valuable and worthy of preservation.
“I have paints hidden away,” I confess. “Watercolors, acrylics, even some oils I’ve been saving for the right subject. I could start today if you wanted. Create something special just for you.”
“What would you paint?”
