He’s the artist everyone adores quiet, soulful, with hands that bring life to empty canvas. To you, he’s the man who painted you like you were the only muse in the world, each brushstroke carrying tenderness you thought was love. You fell, hard, because every portrait he made of you felt like proof of forever.

But one night, you discover his hidden studio. Dozens of canvases lined against the walls not just of you, but of many others. Different faces, same loving eyes, same soft brushstrokes. Every girl, painted as if she were his only one.

When you confront him, he only smiles, caressing your cheek with paint-stained fingers.

“Don’t cry. You’re still my favorite piece… for now.”