A canvas of her own

The sun peeked through the sheer curtains as I stood in front of my easel, brush in hand. My arms trembled with weakness, but I ignored it. I mixed deep Prussian blue with ivory black, dragging broad strokes across the blank canvas until a dark ocean emerged under a stormy sky.

Each stroke felt like reclaiming a piece of myself.

I didn't hear him enter until his low voice broke the silence.

"You're up early."

I stiffened but didn't turn. "I couldn't sleep."

I heard his quiet steps approach. The scent of his aftershave—amber, cedar, power—wrapped around me, once intoxicating, now suffocating.

"What are you painting?" he asked.

"Freedom."

He fell silent behind me. For a moment, I thought he would leave, but instead he said softly, "Why does freedom look so… dark?"

I closed my eyes, tears pricking behind my lids. Because freedom meant letting go of him. Of us. Of the dream I'd clung to for so long.

"It's not darkness," I said quietly. "It's depth."

Later that morning, I sat at the kitchen island, slowly eating oatmeal while scrolling through my tablet. My art blog had gained over two hundred new followers overnight. Comments poured in beneath my latest post of the half-finished ocean piece.

"There's so much pain here, but so much hope too."

"This hits different. Please keep painting."

"Your work saved me from myself today."

Tears blurred my vision. For the first time in so long, I felt… seen.

Logan entered, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, tie perfectly knotted. He paused when he saw me smiling at the screen.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Nothing," I said quickly, locking the tablet and pushing it aside.

He frowned. "Don't hide things from me, Madison."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Why? You've hidden your heart from me for years."

He flinched almost imperceptibly before regaining his cold composure. "Eat," he ordered. "You're too thin."

I clenched my spoon, anger simmering beneath my ribs. "You don't get to care about me now, Logan. Not like this. Not when it's convenient for you."

His eyes narrowed, but instead of his usual biting retort, he sighed deeply, rubbing his temple as if exhausted by his own existence.

"Your appointment with Dr. Harrington is at four," he said. "I'll clear my afternoon meetings."

I shook my head. "I'm going alone."

His gaze snapped up, blazing with fury. "No."

"Yes," I said firmly, my voice trembling with conviction. "I don't need you there out of guilt."

His chest heaved. For a moment, I thought he would explode, but instead he turned away, his voice cold and low.

"Do whatever you want."

That afternoon, I sat alone in Dr. Harrington's consultation room, tapping my foot nervously. The nurse entered with a soft smile.

"Dr. Harrington will be with you shortly. Also, Renee Collins from The Haven Gallery left a message for you."

My heart skipped. "Renee Collins?"

"Yes. She said she loved your submission and wants to discuss an exhibition slot."

Tears welled in my eyes. "Thank you," I whispered hoarsely.

When I left the hospital an hour later, prescription bag in hand, the world felt brighter despite my nausea and dizziness. I dialled Renee's number immediately.

"Madison Hayes," her crisp, elegant voice answered. "I've been waiting to hear your voice all day."

"Thank you so much for calling," I said breathlessly. "I… I can't believe this."

"Believe it, darling," Renee chuckled softly. "Your portfolio is extraordinary. There's a raw honesty in your brushwork that collectors crave. Are you available to come in tomorrow morning to discuss logistics?"

My chest burned with excitement. "Yes. Absolutely."

"Wonderful. Ten AM at Haven Gallery in Chelsea. I look forward to meeting you in person."

As the call ended, I leaned against a lamppost, clutching my phone to my chest. For the first time since my diagnosis, I felt truly alive.

That evening, I sat at my easel again, working under the soft glow of my studio lamp. My strokes were bold and confident. I painted a woman standing on a cliff in a red dress, hair whipping wildly around her face as the storm raged below. She was unafraid. Untouched.

Strong.

So absorbed was I in my work that I didn't hear him enter.

"Madison," Logan said softly behind me.

I froze, paintbrush poised mid-air.

"What is it?" I asked coldly without turning.

"I ordered dinner," he said. "You need to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Please," he rasped, his voice breaking slightly. "Just… come eat."

Something in his tone made my chest ache. Slowly, I set down my brush and turned to face him.

His tie was gone, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms dusted with dark hair. His eyes looked tired. Haunted. There were purple shadows beneath them, as if he hadn't slept in days.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked, my voice trembling. "Why are you pretending to care now?"

He flinched, pain flashing across his face. "I'm not pretending."

I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes. "Don't do this, Logan. Don't make me hope again."

He stepped forward, reaching out as if to touch my face, but stopped himself. His hand hovered inches from my cheek before curling into a fist and dropping to his side.

"Eat," he whispered brokenly. "Please."

We sat in silence at the dining table, the clink of cutlery against porcelain the only sound between us. I picked at my pasta, my stomach churning from chemo nausea and emotion.

Finally, I spoke.

"I met with Renee Collins today."

He frowned. "Who's that?"

"A curator at Haven Gallery. She wants to give me an exhibition slot."

His eyes darkened. "Where is this gallery?"

"Chelsea."

"That's too far," he snapped. "You're sick."

"I'm not dead," I shot back, slamming my fork down. "This is my life, Logan. My dream."

His jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might crack. "You're my wife."

I laughed bitterly, tears spilling down my cheeks. "You keep saying that like it means something."

"It does," he growled.

"Not to me," I whispered.

Silence fell like a guillotine.

Finally, he stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the marble. Without another word, he left the dining room, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall.

I returned to my studio that night, picking up my brush again. As the storm woman took shape on the canvas, tears streamed down my face.

He could keep his guilt.

His power.

His cold, crumbling love.

Because for the first time in my life, I was painting for me.

And I wouldn't give that up for anyone.

Not even him.