What We Choose

The studio smelled of turpentine and rain.

Amelia sat cross-legged in front of the canvas, brush in hand, the soft hum of the city outside like a distant lullaby. She hadn't left the apartment since Daniel walked out. The echo of his voice still lingered in the corners, in the dent on the couch cushion where he used to sit, in the way the morning light didn't quite warm the room the same way with him gone.

She hadn't called him. Not once.

But she hadn't stopped painting.

The portrait had changed. With every brushstroke, she peeled back the version of him the world might see—the model, the muse—and painted the man who had stood in her kitchen barefoot, grumbling about burnt coffee. The one who kissed her like he was terrified to need it. The one who left because he didn't know how to stay.

She painted him with shadows beneath his eyes, with lips half-parted like he might say something and never would. And in those eyes—she let herself paint the ache. Hers. His. The ache of wanting something real and being afraid it might not survive reality.

By the third day, she hadn't eaten more than dry toast and cold tea. She barely noticed. The painting had taken her.

And then her doorbell rang.

At first, she thought it was the delivery she hadn't ordered, or the gallery finally sending someone in person. She didn't move.

The bell rang again.

She wiped her hands on a stained rag and padded to the door. Her heart knocked louder than her steps.

It wasn't the gallery.

Daniel stood in the hall, holding something wrapped in brown paper—weather-worn, water-speckled. His eyes swept over her quickly, like he was checking to see if she'd broken in his absence.

She hadn't.

But she was close.

"You left this," he said, offering the bundle.

She took it without looking. "What is it?"

He hesitated. "Something I painted. A long time ago."

Her brow lifted. "You painted?"

"Used to," he said softly. "Before… all this."

She peeled back the paper slowly. A charcoal sketch. Her face. Rough, almost reckless in execution, but tender in expression. She hadn't known he'd ever studied her like that.

"I don't show people," he said. "But I needed you to see it."

Silence fell between them again. Familiar. Charged.

"You said you didn't want to be a secret," she murmured, looking up. "But you've got secrets too."

Daniel exhaled, a dry almost-laugh. "We're both hiding behind the same frame, Amelia. Just from opposite sides."

She stepped back. "Come in."

He paused. "Are you sure?"

"I'm not sure of anything," she said honestly. "Except that I want you here. Even if it's messy. Even if it hurts."

He stepped inside.

The studio hadn't changed, but it felt different now—like something sacred had cracked and let light in through the break. She watched as he walked to the canvas and saw what she'd painted.

His breath caught. He reached out, then stopped himself. "You… see me."

"I do," she said. "Even when I wish I didn't."

He looked at her then—really looked. "Then maybe it's time I stop hiding."

And this time, when he touched her, it wasn't desperate. It wasn't hesitant. It was a quiet claiming—of space, of trust, of something slowly healing between them.

They weren't fixed.

But they were choosing.

And sometimes, that was enough.