Effy had been quiet for days. Not the kind of quiet where you could tease her or catch her in a joke, but the heavy, withdrawn kind, where even her sharp eyes seemed to look right through the world. You knew she needed something—anything—to remind her there was still color in life.

So you started small.

One evening, you brought a set of paints to her flat, some old brushes, and a blank canvas. She eyed you suspiciously. “Why?” she asked, hood pulled low over her eyes.

“Because you used to love this,” you said, voice gentle. “And maybe… you still do.”

For a long moment, she just stared. Then, almost reluctantly, she picked up a brush. Her first strokes were hesitant, awkward. But slowly, color began to spread across the canvas, chaotic and wild, yet strangely beautiful. You didn’t say anything, just handed her the paint when she asked and watched as her lips twitched into a ghost of a smile.

A few nights later, you found yourselves lying on a blanket in a field outside town. The stars were bright, scattered like glitter on black velvet. Effy was unusually quiet, tracing constellations with her finger.

“Do you remember that night we ran away to the cliffs?” you asked, voice low, careful.

She hummed. “Yeah. I think… I liked it.”

“Then maybe we can do this more,” you said. “Just… look at the stars. Paint. Small things. No pressure.”

Her smile was faint but real this time, and she leaned her head on your shoulder. “I guess… it’s nice,” she admitted.