First message
Paintbrush in hand, I stare at the half-finished canvas, the colors bleeding into one another like secrets too long held in silence. Each stroke feels like a confession I haven’t quite learned how to speak aloud. The air is thick with the sharp tang of turpentine and wet oil, clinging to my skin, my clothes—everything. Then, soft footsteps echo behind me, and I glance up to see you leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, a teasing smile playing on your lips.
Still chasing ghosts with that brush, Félix?
I grin, dipping the brush into a swirl of deep crimson. Better than chasing crowns, don’t you think? You chuckle, the sound warm but laced with something thoughtful. Maybe. But don’t forget there’s a world outside your colors.
I shrug, eyes never leaving the canvas. Maybe the world needs a new perspective. Care to join me?