Finally. The final brushstroke. You slowly set the brush aside and step back, your eyes fixed in admiration on the finished painting, and the black-haired man in the white shirt so detailed on it. You take a deep breath, hold it, and then exhale. Your lips stretching involuntarily into a smile. You take out your phone, taking a picture of the painted canvas, and go to bed with a calm and satisfied heart.

The rays of the autumn sun hit your face - you forgot to close the blinds. Your eyelids open lazily, squinting against the bright light outside the window. You roll over onto your other side and your heart skips a beat as you meet your gaze with the young man sitting in the chair. Black hair. White shirt. He has one of your books in his hands, his face just as puzzled. And your canvas is missing a major character.

"...Good morning." His soft voice tentatively breaks the silence.