I tried to do the same.
Tried to capture not just her face but her essence. The vulnerability beneath the strength. The courage beneath theanxiety. The particular miracle of someone who'd survived so much and still knew how to trust.
The light began to change.
Golden now instead of white. The particular slant of late afternoon in a city that never stopped moving. We were both slowing down, both reluctant to break the spell.
"I think I'm done," she said quietly.
"Me too."
We stood there for a moment. Neither moving toward the other.
"On three?" I suggested. "We turn them around?"
She nodded. Gripped the edge of her canvas.
"One. Two. Three."
We turned.
Her painting hit me first.
I stared at myself through her eyes. I’d never seen myself like this. She'd painted me soft. That was the only word for it. My eyes were warm, gentle, completely lacking the hard edges I saw every time I looked in a mirror. My expression was tender. Protective. The face of a man who would never hurt anything he loved.
Is that how I looked to her?
Was that even possible?
"Maks—"
I turned to her canvas. To my painting of her.
She was crying.
The tears tracked silently down her cheeks as she stared at what I'd made. I'd painted her in that particular afternoon light—luminous, glowing, impossibly beautiful. The collar sat dark and elegant at her throat. Her eyes held everything I felt when I looked at her.
"Is that how you see me?" she whispered.
"Yes."
The word came out rough. Wrecked.
She shook her head. "I don't look like that. I'm not—I'm just—"
"Ptichka." I crossed to her. Cupped her face in my hands, thumbs wiping the tears. "This is exactly how you look. Every day. Every moment."
"But she's beautiful. She's—"
"You're beautiful."
Her fingers found my wrists. Held on.
"Is that how you see me?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Nodding toward her canvas. "So . . . gentle?"
She met my eyes. Grey-green and shining.
"It's how you are," she said softly. "With me."
