Episode 17
1056 Words
THE CANVAS OF US
Eden hadn’t planned for this—the way her heart would thrum louder in Aiden’s presence, the way his voice would linger in her mind like brushstrokes across a blank canvas. She hadn’t planned for the way everything changed the moment he began spending more time around her studio.
It started innocently enough: he’d stroll in with his coffee, backpack slung over one shoulder, teasing smirk in place as he made some offhand comment about her current piece. But lately, it wasn’t just the art he was interested in. It was her.
Eden’s childhood had been painted in careful lines and soft tones. Her parents—Linda and Marcus Bennett—were high school sweethearts turned responsible adults. Her mother was a librarian, her father a math teacher. Quiet, gentle people who believed in order and structure. They didn’t raise their voices. They didn’t fight. But they also didn’t always see her. Not really.
She was the only child, a girl who filled her notebooks with color instead of equations, who found solace in empty pages and the freedom to fill them however she liked. Art became her sanctuary, the one space where she didn’t have to be perfect. Her parents didn’t understand it—her mother tried, always asking about her pieces, nodding along politely—but they never really got it.
When Eden got into Rothmore Academy, a prestigious high school with a competitive arts program, it felt like permission to finally exist without shrinking. She’d made a small group of friends—Talia, who was always dramatic and loud and full of life; Naveen, the thoughtful boy who loved photography; and Ezra, the quiet soul who understood the language of lines and sketches better than most. They were her people, her quiet rebellion against the mold she was expected to fit into.
And then came Aiden.
He was older. A senior when she was a sophomore. With eyes that looked like they’d seen too much and a grin that said he didn’t care. He wasn’t part of her world, not really—he was in the literature program, known for essays that made teachers sigh and classmates scowl. But one day, he wandered into the art building during an open studio session. And Eden had looked up, her brush stilling mid-air.
He watched her paint. Not like a curious outsider. Like someone who saw her.
“You always look so serious,” he said that first day.
Eden blinked. “Maybe I am.”
He smiled, lazy and infuriating. “That’s no fun.”
From there, it became a pattern. Aiden showing up unannounced. Eden pretending she wasn’t thrilled every time. He’d ask her questions—real ones, not filler. About her process. Her technique. Her vision. And when he spoke, she listened. Because beneath the teasing, there was sharpness. He understood the kind of truth that art demanded.
Now, weeks later, she was working on a large-scale piece. It had started as a study in contrast—light and shadow, form and blur. But somewhere along the way, it had turned into him.
Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But the shape of his lips, the arch of his brow, the tilt of his head—it was all Aiden. And she hated how natural it felt to paint him.
He walked into the studio late that afternoon, windblown and out of breath.
“You okay?” she asked, setting down her brush.
“Fine. Just—ran into my advisor. He thinks I’m wasting time here.”
“Are you?”
Aiden grinned. “Probably. But it’s my time to waste.”
He walked behind her, pausing to study the canvas.
“Is that me?”
Eden hesitated. “It’s no one. Just…a figure.”
“Mm-hmm,” he said, unconvinced.
He didn’t push. Instead, he moved to the supply shelf, rifling through the paints like he had every right to. He picked out a shade of blue, then held it out.
“You’re missing something. Right here.” He pointed to a corner of the piece.
Eden rolled her eyes. “Since when are you an expert on color theory?”
“Since I started hanging out with a tortured artist who doesn’t know how to ask for help.”
She flushed. “I’m not tortured.”
“No?” he said softly, stepping closer. “Then why do all your paintings look like heartbreak?”
She didn’t answer.
They worked together in silence after that. Aiden perched on the edge of a table, watching her with that calm, unreadable gaze. Occasionally, he’d offer suggestions. Surprisingly good ones. Eden was annoyed by how often he was right.
The hours passed, the light shifted. And when the painting neared completion, Eden stepped back, breath catching.
It was beautiful. Raw and vivid and alive. And undeniably him.
Aiden must have sensed it too. He stood, eyes scanning the canvas. “You should sign it.”
She hesitated.
“Why not?”
“Because then it becomes real.”
“It already is.”
His voice was so quiet she almost missed it. She turned to him, heart thudding.
“You confuse me,” she whispered.
He stepped closer. “Good. Maybe that means I’m doing something right.”
His hand brushed her cheek, calloused fingertips trailing warmth across her skin. Eden didn’t move.
“I shouldn’t…” she said.
“I know.”
They stood in the silence, the weight of what they weren’t saying pressing between them.
Then Aiden leaned in.
The kiss was tentative at first, a question. She answered with her mouth, her hands curling into his hoodie as if to anchor herself.
It was messy. Uncertain. Perfect.
When they broke apart, both breathless, Aiden rested his forehead against hers.
“What are we doing?” she asked.
“Breaking the rules,” he murmured.
Eden smiled.
“Good.”
Because she was tired of rules. Of expectations. Of pretending she didn’t want more.
Later that night, after he left, she stared at the canvas. Then, slowly, she picked up her brush and signed it.
E A.
No last names. No labels. Just truth.
And for the first time, her art didn’t feel like a cage. It felt like a door.
- Writer
