Unspoken Through Canvas
922 Words
“Come on,” I said, unlocking the door and glancing back at him. “I can pour you a coffee… as a thank you for helping me escape your home.”
As we walked in, I headed straight to the small kitchen corner, trying to steady myself with something normal. I reached for the coffee, my movements automatic.
“So, Miss Rose,” he said casually, leaning against the wall, watching me. “You had a meeting… for a painting?”
“Oh—yes,” I replied quickly, distracted. “I almost forgot. Sorry, I need to make a call.”
I wiped my hands and reached for my phone, dialing the number I had saved earlier.
The line started ringing.
But then—Another sound filled the room.A phone. Ringing. Not mine.
Slowly, I turned my head. Sebastian didn’t move. He just stood there, watching me… as the sound came from his pocket.
My heart skipped. The ringing stopped.
“Oh…” I whispered, staring at him as the realization settled in.
“It’s you… the person about the painting.”
Sebastian didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he slowly pulled his phone from his pocket, glancing at the screen before silencing it completely.
Then his eyes lifted back to mine.
“Guilty,” he said calmly.
I let out a small, disbelieving breath, shaking my head.
“All this time… and you didn’t think to mention it?”
“I preferred to meet the artist first,” he replied. “Not just the name.”
“Well,” I crossed my arms slightly, trying to regain control of the moment, “now you’ve met both.”
“Yes,” he said quietly.
“And I’m even more interested than before.”
A pause settled between us, thick but not uncomfortable—just… charged.
So, Miss Rose,” he said, his tone shifting into something lighter but still confident, “can you show me around your studio?”
“And explain your paintings,” he added, “then maybe we can talk about the one I liked.
As we walked through my studio, I started showing him my paintings one by one. I could feel his gaze lingering on me more than on the artwork at times, but I ignored it and focused on what I loved most—my work.
“So, Mr. Sebastian,” I said, trying to sound professional, “we would start with this painting that I made first.”
“The painting may feel abstract,” I continued, “but with its colors it is telling a story about feeling… betrayal and love, interest and abandonment.”
My voice grew more confident as I moved from one canvas to the next, explaining each one. I spoke about emotion, about chaos, about beauty hidden in pain. And he just stood there, listening quietly.
Not interrupting. Not rushing me. Just watching. But not just the paintings. Me. His eyes stayed on me in a way that felt… constant.
I noticed them properly now—Sebastian’s eyes. Blue-grey, soft but deep, like storm clouds that had never fully broken.
So different from Dominic's. Dominic's eyes were brown with hints of yellow—sharp, intense, always carrying hunger and mystery, like he was always searching for control or power.
But Sebastian’s gaze… It wasn’t like that.It felt calmer. Warmer. Almost gentle.
And yet still mysterious enough to make me question what was hiding beneath it.
His eyes carried something like understanding… and something dangerously close to care.I finished speaking, suddenly aware of the silence between us again. He didn’t look away from me. Not even for a second, broke the silence and moved on to the next canvas, the one I always avoided looking at for too long.
“This one…” I said quietly, “is a self-portrait I made for myself.”
.The face was almost broken, blurred in places, as if it was trying to disappear into the canvas. The only thing clear… were the eyes.
I swallowed slightly as I explained.
“I made it last year.”
Sebastian stepped closer, studying it in silence. His gaze softened, but there was something deeper in his expression now—like he was trying to understand more than just the painting.
“Oh,” he said after a moment. “So this is the painting I want to buy.”
I blinked, turning to him. “What?”
His voice lowered slightly, more certain now.
“And I think it would fit perfectly in my room.”
“What about the other painting that you came to buy?”
Sebastian’s gaze didn’t leave the self-portrait for a second.
“Oh yes,” he said calmly, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “That one too.”
I blinked. “That’s not how buying art works buy artwork.”
“And as you are so good at portraits,” he continued, finally turning his eyes back to me, “I want to ask you something.”
I frowned slightly. “What?”
“I want a painting of my portrait,” he said.
“Your portrait?”
“Yes,” he replied simply. “Paint me.”
His eyes held mine—calm, steady, unreadable in a different way now. Not demanding… but certain, like he already expected me to say yes.
“And I’ll pay whatever you ask,” he added softly, “but I want it done by you.”
- Writer
