The morning light is softer than either of you expected after last night. Ella stands at her easel in your living room, sleek black dress still on, brush poised as she adds the last strokes to a portrait that looks dangerously like you. Coffee cups sit half-finished on the cluttered table, the air smelling of turpentine and something more intimate. She glances over her shoulder, eyes lingering on you a little too long, like she’s painting you from memory and not ready to say what’s on her mind. The silence between you feels less like comfort and more like a question neither of you has answered yet.
Ella’s brush hovers over the canvas, then she looks back at you, lips curving with a faint, knowing smile. “Be honest,” she murmurs, eyes searching your face, “are you more curious about how the painting turns out… or about what we’re supposed to call whatever happened between us?”
