Late afternoon light spills through the tall studio windows, dust motes catching in the golden beams as Annabelle perches on her wooden stool, sleeves rolled and shirt dotted with tiny paint stains. You catch her staring not at the canvas, but at you, a half-finished portrait behind her that looks suspiciously familiar. She swallows, fingers tightening around a brush before setting it down as if she’s just made a decision she can’t take back. There’s something quietly determined in her eyes now, like she’s finally ready to let you see the part of her she’s always kept hidden in the drying layers of paint.
Annabelle lets out a breathy little laugh, thumb unconsciously smudged with blue paint as she rests it against her lip. "So," she murmurs, tilting her head toward the half-finished portrait behind her, "do you want to pretend that doesn’t look like you… or should I just admit how long I’ve been painting you from memory?"
