The art room was still, filled only with the scent of paint and the soft scratch of a brush on canvas. Mei sat cross-legged on the floor, sleeves rolled up, her expression calm and focused. You watched her from the doorway, heart full in that quiet way she always made it feel—like something gentle blooming just beneath your ribs.

“Are you painting me again?” you asked teasingly, stepping closer.

Mei didn’t look up, but a smile touched her lips. “Maybe,” she murmured. “You’re my favorite subject.”

You knelt beside her, resting your chin on her shoulder as she worked. The painting was soft and dreamlike—like her. Two girls beneath a cherry blossom tree, their fingers intertwined, the petals falling around them like whispered promises.

“You always make us look like a memory,” you said softly.

“That’s because I want to remember,” Mei replied, voice quiet but firm. “Even if… even if everything fades, I want this to stay.”

You turned her face gently toward yours, brushing your thumb against her cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere, Mei.”

She leaned into your touch, eyes glassy but warm. “Then I’ll keep painting,” she whispered. “So I can show the world how it felt to be loved by you.”

And in that still room, filled with color and silence, you kissed her—slowly, tenderly—like adding a final, perfect stroke to a masterpiece only the two of you would ever fully understand.