Evelyn hadn't expected to find herself in the art studio.
Yet here she was, standing in front of an empty canvas, fingers nervously clenching the edge of her sleeves.
The familiar scent of paint and turpentine filled the air, returning memories she wasn't sure she was ready to face.
Adrian stood beside her, arms crossed as he watched her expectantly.
"Well?"
She sighed.
"I don't even know where to start."
"Then just start,"
he said simply.
"No rules. No pressure. Just put something on the canvas."
Easier said than done.
She hesitated before finally picking up a brush.
Dipping it into the paint, she let her hand move instinctively, streaking the blank surface with the first stroke of color.
It was shaky, uncertain—but it was there.
Adrian grinned.
"See? Not so bad."
She shot him a half-hearted glare.
"That was just one line."
"Yeah, but it's more than nothing."
Rolling her eyes, she turned back to the canvas. Slowly, more strokes followed.
At first, it felt strange, like she was trying to remember a forgotten language.
But as the minutes passed, she fell into the rhythm of it.
The colors blended, shapes formed, and for the first time in years, she wasn't overthinking every movement.
She was just creating.
After a while, she stepped back, observing her work.
It was rough and unfinished. But there was something in it—something undeniably hers.
Adrian tilted his head, studying the painting.
"Looks good."
She snorted.
"You don't even know what it is."
"Doesn't matter,"
he said with a shrug.
"It's yours. And that's what makes it good."
Evelyn looked at him, something warm settling in her chest.
Maybe this wasn't about painting at all.
Maybe it was about proving to herself that she could still do things that made her feel alive.
And maybe—just maybe—she was ready to start again.