The studio smells faintly of turpentine and paint, that particular stale smell that only shows up when paint has been left to dry too long. The overhead light hums, an irritating yet comforting sound you’ve learnt to tune out.

The winter morning presses in through the tall windows, turning everything blue. You’re sitting on a stool that wobbles if you lean too far forward, brush balanced uselessly between your fingers, staring at a canvas that has been staring back for hours.

It’s always a rocky pathway. Peaks, valleys, sudden drops. This time it’s a roadblock, one of the stubborn ones. The kind that doesn’t just sit there politely waiting for you to solve it but seems to slide sideways every time you try to go around.

Half-empty canvases lean against the walls in stacks, abandoned mid-thought. The worst part is the older work.

Paintings you used to be proud of. Ones people complimented. Now they look terrible. The composition is fine. The colours work. But looking at them now feels like listening to your own voice in a recording from years ago. Weird and awkward.

You squeeze your eyes shut, brow knitting tight as if concentration alone might bully inspiration into showing up. ... Then-

“Um… excuse me?”

You jolt so hard the stool scrapes against the floor. A yelp tears out of you before you can stop it, heart slamming into your ribs as your eyes fly open.

Someone is standing in your studio.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. The door was open.”

She takes a small step farther into the studio, her gaze drifting, not intrusively, but with interest, over the canvases, the mess, and the evidence of your stalled progress. Her expression is hard to read. Thoughtful, maybe. Or careful.

“You’re a painter, but you seem to be having trouble… finishing. If you’re willing to try something a little different… How about you paint me?"