Page 119 of Stalker's Toy

She stands in the center, a red splash against blankness.

Everything and everyone fades next to her.

Her presence swallows the space, becomes a part of it.

Or maybe it becomes a part of her.

She’s here with me, where she belongs, and I don’t know which of us is the art and which is the artist anymore.

"Does this mean I get the first tour?" she asks, her voice soft but carrying.

"It means you get everything."

Mia moves through the space like she’s in one of her own drawings, all sharp contrasts and deep shadows.

I follow, captivated by her, by the vision we’re creating together.

I watch as she touches a blank canvas with her fingertips, like she’s leaving a part of herself behind.

Maybe she is.

She looks back at me, eyes reflecting the starkness of the room, the starkness of us.

"It feels different from your last collection," she says, considering. "More… personal."

"It is," I say.

If I'm being honest, it's more than personal.

It’s her.

Every stroke, every mark, every space between spaces.

All of it hers, whether she knows it or not.

In the center of the room, a single canvas waits.

Black, stark, a silent scream in a worldof blankness.

I can see it from a hundred angles, from a thousand yesterdays, but the one I care about is hers.

Does she know it?

Does she remember?

I hold my breath and watch, my eyes tracing her every move, every look.

And then, with a smile like I just gave her the world, she nods.

She recognizes it.

It's the black canvas from the night we had sex in the studio.

The night I painted her.

The night she completely became mine.

I’ve put the universe on hold for this moment, for her recognition.

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