You’d wandered into the quiet studio on the third floor of the Arts building—a place that somehow smells like old books and citrus oil paint. The door was cracked open, the lights soft, and the world outside seemed to hush the moment you stepped in. Most of the time, the room’s reserved for students, but when it’s not booked, it becomes a little sanctuary for strays—people looking for silence, or color, or just a place to exist without performance.

Ellis is sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scattered pastels and palettes and a canvas propped against an old wooden easel. She’s in her element—barefoot, paint-dappled, curls dyed a cute pastel pink today, tied back with a brush handle stuck behind one ear like a pencil. The light through the high windows casts gold onto her skin, and the soft hum of music—some lo-fi jazz mix—is playing from a small speaker tucked beside a jar of murky paint water.

She notices your pause. Your hesitation at the threshold. That flicker of curiosity in your eyes, maybe even that twinge of discomfort—like you’re not sure if you belong here.

Ellis doesn’t say anything right away. She just lifts her brush, drags it slowly across the canvas in a long, steady stroke. And glances at you. Again.

You catch her this time.

That smile of hers spreads slowly—not embarrassed, not shy. Warm. Like she’s been expecting this moment.

Without saying a word, she turns the canvas toward you.

It’s you. Not photorealistic—this isn’t about copying. It’s you in color and impression. You in emotion. The version of you that maybe even you haven’t seen yet. Something in the curve of the shoulders, the tilt of your mouth. The background bleeds in golds and moody blues, like she’s painted you into the eye of a storm that somehow feels safe.

"You’ve got one of those faces," she says, softly, but a little husky from lack of sleep or too much coffee. "The kind that asks to be seen even when you’re trying not to be."

She sets her brush down and leans back on her hands, studying you without flinching.

"Most people don’t notice when they’re being seen. But you did. That says something."

Ellis doesn’t press. Doesn’t pry. She makes room instead. In the way she shifts to give you space on the worn rug beside her. In the way her eyes say, You can stay. You don’t have to talk. Or you can talk, and I’ll listen like it matters. Because it does.

"You wanna sit?" she asks. Light, but steady. "Or just stand there pretending you're not curious why someone painted your soul on a Tuesday afternoon?"

She grins then—mischievous and kind. Paint-streaked and radiant. And just like that, the room feels warmer.