“Wow”

I breathe out. I hadn't expected this kind of surprise when Jasmine brought me upstairs — to the most hidden room in the palace. Her excitement was all over the place, the way she urged me to hurry up as if the whole World was on a timer. Then, just before she opened the door, I caught the flicker of hesitation in her eyes

There were canvases lined up against the wall neatly. A sturdy wooden easel stood by the window, right where the sunlight poured in. And in the middle of it all, a worktable cluttered with brushes, jar of paints, palettes, pencils arranged in order.

For a moment I just stopped breathing.

“You…..did this?” My voice came out lower, rougher than intended. I carefully walk inside, expecting everything to vanish like a dream. My finger brushes across the smooth edges of the wooden table. The spotlights cast a warm glow in the room along with sunlight. And the faint scent of lavender candles to cover the paint’s smell.

I feel myself relaxing, it's almost a replica of my studio back in Sydney.

I was missing it.

And she brought it here

“Yeah. I thought maybe… you would like to have your own space here” Her voice breaks the silence, small but filled with hope “I know you missed painting” she rubs her arm.

I turn around to face her. She looks at me with a flickering uncertainty in her eyes — like she was afraid I wouldn't like it.

I cross the room in two strides and scoop her into my arms, hugging her tightly that she gasped “Thank you” I whisper against her shoulder “Thank you so much. It's perfect”

Her arms slips around me with the same feeling “I am glad you liked it” she mutters against my chest.

I pull back slightly, just enough to see her face but not releasing her yet “I love it. You have no idea what this means to me” I mutter, resting my forehead against hers.

Her smile widens “Then I did it right”

I interlink my fingers with hers, guiding her further inside “As you have gifted me with this place. Could you do me the honour of letting me capture your beauty?” I ask, making my tone sound a bit dramatic. Gesturing her to sit on the couch near the window

She chuckles softly, lowering herself on the couch “Oh! why not” she replies, mimicking my tone.

I step back, dragging the easel before her and adjusting the distance for a perfect angle. I grab a fresh canvas, placing it on the easel and then proceed to grab palette, paints and brushes. I switch off the lights of the room, letting the sunlight do it's job. My movements are fast due to excitement brewing inside me.

It have been long

Too long since I held the brush

Since I let my hand translate how my heart felt.

“How do you want me to pose?” She questions, tilting her head in curiously. My fingers freezes mid motion, the brush still half dipped in the mixing of colours on the palette.

I set it on the table and step out from behind the camera “How do you wanna pose?”

She hums thoughtfully while scanning the room to get some ideas. Her face brightens up when she gets something.

She lifts her legs onto the couch and leans sideways against the armrest, her elbow propped casually. With a subtle push of her hand, she tucks her hair behind — revealing the faintest shadow of a hickey visible on her skin.

My lips curl into a smirk before I can stop myself.

“Is that good?” She asks. Looking at me with those soft dreamy brown eyes which flickered against the sunlight.

My breath catches in my throat

I nod “It's as if the nature sculptured you just for me”

“You say it because I am your muse” She smiles softly, letting her head rest and just like that she became still — still but not quiet.

Because Jasmine was never quiet, never with me.

I dip the brush into the paint, my hand steady as I start with the outline of her face. But I couldn't focus properly when she was looking at me like that.

Her eyes, they ruin me. Wide yet soft, locked on me like I was the only one who existed in her world. They weren’t just eyes — they were an unspoken emotion. They spoke to me, they showed me her every form — mischief, affection and now something so deep which made my chest ache.

The saree framed her like a secret I wasn’t supposed to see but couldn’t look away from. The golden border complemented her skin, the silk hugging every contour of her body.

She looked eternal.

I wasn't lying when I said she would be worshipped by her husband. If, by some miracle — it ends up being me? I would worship her with every breath I had left.

The nath curved delicately against her nose, she is wearing it for the second time but everytime it just elevates her look even more. The light catches in her jhumkas, tiny sparks that frames her face

The way her jhumkas kissed her cheek whenever they moved. As if they also couldn't resist touching her.

Yeah, I am jealous of everything that's close to her.

The brush moved on its own, tracing and capturing the line of her nose, the delicate curve of her soft lips.

Those lips — God, those lips. The same one that smiled at me with, pouting when she wanted her way in something. The ones which kissed me like I was the only thing keeping her alive

I wanted to taste her again

Kiss her, touch every part of her skin.

She looked so tempting.

The need shakens me inside, my left hand trembles once but I steady it. She deserved perfection. She deserved to be remembered in the strokes that I made.

The silence stretched between us.

None of us spoke for minutes, maybe hours.

I didn't feel tired but more at peace while painting.

She was the reason colors made sense in my canvas. I never needed to fill my paintings with colours until her. She is the reason why the strokes curved the way they did. The reason I believed beauty wasn’t something you looked at but it's something you feel inside.

The painting wasn’t even half done, it would take me several hours to finish it completely but I couldn't make her sit that long. I lean back, to look at the unfinished portrait — realising the canvas didn’t do her justice.

It never could.

Because paint couldn’t capture the way her breath hitched when she caught me looking at her. Or the way her pulse quickened when my eyes lingered too long. .

But I tried my best — because she was my muse.

My forever muse.

And as she looked at me, sitting there wrapped in sunlight and silk. I knew I could spend my whole life painting her and still never run out of things to see.

“Can I ask you something?” She asks, tilting her head slightly.

I nod, slowly sitting on the stool without looking up from the canvas

“I didn't know you were ambidextrous but you always paint with your left hand? Why?”

Her question makes me pause, my gaze drops to my left hand that was curled around the brush.  I didn't think she would notice it, she only saw me paint once or twice.

“Come here, please” I request, setting the brush and palette on the table before extending a hand towards her direction. She hesitates slightly but reluctantly gets up and walks over to me.

She places her hand in mine, I hold it gently, savouring the softness of her skin and pull her onto my lap. She gasps in surprise but soon melts into my touch.

I open my left hand in front of her, pressing my index and ring finger together.  “Do you know about vena amoris?”

She frowns, shaking her head with pure cluelessness.

I sigh with a smile, sliding my arm around her waist to steady her “There is an old belief that vena amoris — vein of love, directly connects to your heart, that's why engagement rings are worn here” I explain, looking at her reaction “That's why I paint you with my left hand. My right hand paints what I see while my left paints what I feel”

Her eyes widens, totally stunned. Looking at me like I said the most bizarre thing. “Oh gosh, you are just…” she trails off, burying her face in her palms

“What?” I promote

Her cheeks flushed pink but she tried to hide it. She lowers her hand, her fingers tightening around the pleats of her saree “The moment I think” she takes a deep breath “the moment I think you couldn't get anymore perfect, you prove me wrong. Every. Single. Time!”

I chuckle, bumping her shoulder with my head “So I am coming under that ‘perfect boyfriend’ category?”

She chuckles, that soft-carefree voice filling the silent room “You have been there for a very long time” she replies, cupping my jaw and then pressing a kiss against it. She leans against me, looking at the painting. Her expressions shifts slightly.

“You don't like it?”

She shakes her head, looking at me and the canvas with wide eyes “No, it's….It always amazes me. But this is the first time I am actually seeing myself in your painting”

Oh

Yes, I haven't shown her the paintings or the endless sketches I made of hers — my secret obsession with capturing her every moment.

“I will show you all of them. One day” I promise, intertwining her hand with mine.

She nods “You should hold an exhibition. Oh!” She jumps on my lap with the idea, my grip tightens on her instinctively  “You should do it! Present all your works! People would love to see it and even buy it! Even bhai is interested in painting—”

‘if you wanna put up a comedy show them these might be the one to put out's

‘Art is supposed to be happy and vibrant. What is this black & white nonsense?’

‘It’s not worthy. Before fixing these, fix yourself’

“No” The word tore out harsher than I meant “None of that” Her excitement falters down as she turns to me with concern mixed with confusion

“Why not? Lucas, They are incredible! You deserve to be admired and praised by the world for your talent”

“I don't want the world to know” I mutter, arms tightening around her waist . My chest constricts at the familiar weight of fear pressing inside me “You are enough” I whisper, dropping my forehead against her shoulder.

Her hand came up, stroking my cheek gently. “Why don’t you want others to see them?” she asked, her voice low, careful.

I closed my eyes, sinking into her touch. “I don’t… I don’t want the attention. The comments. The eyes on me. I don’t want any of it.”

“Lucas…” she breathed, her tone soft, almost aching.

“I know.” My voice cracked slightly. “I know I sound like a coward, but it’s not that simple.”

“Why don't you want others to see them?” She asks, her voice low and careful. Her hand came up, stroking my cheek gently. I close my eyes, leaning into her touch for comfort “I don't….I don't want the attention. The comments. Their eyes on me. I don't want any of it”

Just the thought of it makes me feel sick. Takes me back to the time when I tried to heal — picking up the brush, by painting again. After Dad’s passing, it was as if pushing me off a cliff and left me with an endless hallow, stripped me of all warmth and colours.

I tried to paint. I really did. His words echoed in my mind — ‘If you can't express yourself with words, then let the colours speak for you’.

Though people never understood them. They looked at it with confusion, searching for the meaning. And my age was also a minus factor — ‘This young generation would paint anything and call it modern art’

Of course, I couldn't match the level of the classic artists but doesn't mean that what I did wasn't a form of art.

My depression was evident on those canvases, every stroke and dullness make it obvious. I was embarrassed. When I displayed them in class, to a teacher or dared to put them in the gallery.

It wasn't admiration — it was confusion and pity

“Lucas….” She breathes out, her tone pained

“I know” My voice cracks slightly “I know I sound like a coward, but it's not that simple”

She shifts on my lap, her hands cradling my face and forcing me to meet her gaze. Her eyes narrow with fiery and determination.

“You need to understand something,” she says firmly “You are unbelievably talented, Lucas. Even if you never show the world, you should at least be proud of what you create. Be proud of yourself. These are not just paintings, they are emotions that are shown. Do you hear me?”

I could only nod, unable to hold her gaze for long. Afraid if she might look past

my facade. How her words unraveled me.

Her expressions softens, she leans closer and presses her forehead against mine “I want you to love everything about yourself, the way you love me”