He nods, making a note on his tablet, and I realize with surprise that he's adding it to our shared calendar.
The green block appears labeled "Rosanna's Gallery Exhibit."
Our conversation shifts to practical matters: he has late meetings all week; I have a deadline for preliminary sketches on my new project.
When he rises to leave, gathering his things, I find myself watching the way he straightens his already-straight tie, the careful check of his watch, the way he holds his briefcase.
These small rituals seem to anchor him, and I wonder what happens when his careful order is disrupted.
"I'll be back around eight," he says, heading toward the elevator.
He pauses, then adds, "If you need anything..." The sentence hangs unfinished between us, his apparent uncertainty at odds with his usual decisiveness.
I fill in the silence, "I'll text you."
He nods, seemingly relieved to have the protocol established.
The elevator doors close between us, leaving a strange echo.
The penthouse feels vast and hollow once Seamus leaves. I move through the space, still feeling like an intruder.
Seamus set me up a studio next to his home office. When he first showed it to me, it was empty.
Now my illustration table stands beneath the window where natural light streams in, surrounded by organized chaos: reference books stacked in colorful towers, sketches taped to the walls, and cups of brushes and pens arranged by type and size.
When I showed Seamus, expecting disapproval of the disruption to his minimalist aesthetic, he merely nodded and asked if the lighting was adequate for detailed work.
The next day, a professional-grade lamp appeared outside my door with a note: "For you." No signature, but the thoughtfulness surprised me.
In my studio room, I lose myself in work for hours, sketching character designs for a new picture book about a child who builds impossible machines.
The familiar flow of creativity is a relief. There are no contracts here, no pretenses, just the pure communication between my imagination and the page.
When I finally emerge for lunch, the silence of the penthouse is oppressive.
I put on music, letting it fill the empty spaces as I make a sandwich.
The songs echo slightly in the open-concept living area, making the space feel both more alive and somehow emptier at the same time.
***
Back at my desk, I open my laptop to research mechanical references for my illustrations.
A notification appears in the corner of my screen—a new email from Shay.
There's something freeing about writing to someone who knows me only through words, who has no expectations beyond honest communication.
I click open the email, curious what prompted Shay to write. The message is thoughtful, reflecting on change, adaptation, and how we become different people in different environments while still carrying our core selves.
"Sometimes I wonder if the roles we play eventually become who we are,"Shay writes,"or if there's always a separation between them."
The words resonate uncomfortably with my current situation, where the line between performance and reality blurs a little more each day.
I find myself smiling at the familiar tone, the careful consideration Shay always gives to life's complexities.
In a world of surface-level connections, these messages feel like a tether to something real. I don't respond immediately, saving the reply for later when I can give it proper thought, but the email stays with me as I return to my sketches.
Seamus returns shortly after eight, as expected. I'm curled on the living room couch with my sketchbook balanced on my knees.
