I toss a set of basic colors into my basket, then reach for a few extra colors I can’t quite walk away from. A drop cloth goes in last. The total climbs faster than I expect, but Weston’s gift card takes care of most of it, and I don’t hesitate to cover the rest.
By the time I step outside, something feels different. Lighter. Like, for once, I made a choice that was just mine, not shaped by anyone else’s expectations or opinions.
The subway ride back to my apartment—Apartment 714, which still feels weird to say—gives me too much time to think about how easily I let a part of myself slip away. About the strange reality of being single again, making choices based only on what I want. Even now, three days into this new place, everything feels both liberating and terrifying.
And then there’s Weston. His thoughtfulness caught me completely off guard.
I try not to linger on that dinner after ice skating. Or the way he steadied me when I almost fell. Or how his jacket smelled when he draped it over my shoulders. Because those thoughts lead to places I’m not ready to go.
I’m not ready to go anywhere with anyone right now.
My apartment welcomes me with the distinctive look of a place half moved into. Boxes still line one wall of the living room. The furniture is arranged—thanks to Weston and Parker’s heavy lifting—but there are no pictures on the walls. Except for one.
The bear.
I set my bags down and stare at it. The painting looks even worse now than it did when I first saw it.Is it even a bear?The more I look, the less certain I am. Maybe it’s a wolf. Or a very angry shrub. Whatever it is, it’s unsettling, with dark swirls and jagged lines that make it look almost menacing.
“You’re coming down today,” I inform it, unpacking my supplies.
I spread the drop cloth on the floor beneath the painting, arranging my new brushes and paints with care. It feels like a ritual. Like I’m preparing for something sacred. Which is ridiculous … it’s just painting. But as I stand here, looking at the blank canvas I’ve propped against the wall, I can’t help but feel like this is significant somehow.
I take down the bear painting, setting it aside. “No hard feelings,” I tell it, “but you’re a bit of a downer.”
The empty wall space seems to breathe easier.
Or maybe that’s just me, projecting.
I position my canvas on the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of it. The pristine white surface stares back at me, simultaneously inviting and intimidating.
What if I’ve forgotten how?
The thought sneaks in before I can stop it. What if I’ve lost whatever small talent I once had? What if I make something even worse than the bear?
I pick up a brush, then set it down again. Pick up a tube of paint, then place it beside me, untouched. My hand hovers over the canvas, hesitant.
This is stupid. It’s just paint. It’s just for me. No one else ever has to see it.
But the fear persists. It’s the same feeling I had the first time I stood up in moot court, the same tightness I felt in my chest when I moved out of my parents’ place. The same flutter of panic when I realized I had to start over after Cal.
The fear of beginning again.
I take a deep breath, squeezing a dollop of cobalt blue onto my palette. I dip my brush into it, then add a touch of white to lighten the shade. Without overthinking it, I press the brush to canvas, making a long, sweeping stroke from one corner to the other.
The first mark breaks the spell. I add another stroke, then another, working quickly now. The movements are clumsy at first, my hand remembering how to hold a brush while my mind tries to catch up.
But then something shifts. Like riding a bike, my body remembers what my conscious mind has forgotten. My strokes become more confident, the colors blending on the canvas in ways that please me.
I lose track of time as I work. The light changes in the apartment, shadows lengthening across the floor. I don’t notice the cramp in my hand or the stiffness in my back from sitting too long in one position. All I see are the colors taking form, creating something from nothing.
I don’t have a plan for what I’m painting. It starts as abstract swirls of blue and teal, reminiscent of water. But then I add earth tones—warm browns and subtle greens—that gradually shape themselves into something like a shoreline. A horizon line emerges, and above it, a sky filled with clouds tinged pink and gold with the sunset.
It’s not a specific place I’ve been, more like a feeling, a memory. Something half-remembered from childhood or dreamed about on restless nights. As I work, thoughts flow through me, unhindered by the usual constraints of logic and reason that dominate my professional life.
I think about how much I’ve changed since I was the girl who used to paint all the time. Somewhere along the way, creative expression gave way to law school and the steady climb of acareer. And then there was Cal, setting the rhythm of my days until I almost forgot what my own sounded like.
“This is me,” I murmur to the canvas, adding highlights to the water. “This is the part of myself I forgot about.”
My phone buzzes somewhere in the apartment, but I ignore it. For once, the constant pull of messages and emails and notifications doesn’t feel urgent.
