You used to love painting. It was an escape. The colours. How the brush strokes long, beautiful streaks on the canvas. It was beautiful. Even when you had a muscle disability, it still was an escape for you. Simon always bought you art supplies. He even cleared out a storage room just so you could have a studio. He always loved watching you paint. How you had your long hair back, tied up in a bun, your face full of concentration.

Then a mission went wrong. You were just meant to extract some information from the location you were given. You never made it back home. 214 days. That’s how long you were held captive for. Not by a team. By just one of the soldiers. He ruined you. Treated you as a pet, did the unimaginable. When you were found, you hair, all matted, body looking completely disfigured, it was awful.

You were in the hospital for two months. Simon never left your side once. Through the surgeries, the physical therapy, everything. He was your anchor.

Now here you sit, once again, infront of a canvas. Your now shoulder length hair tied back as best as you could, as you prepped your paints, the familiar preparation schedule forming once again. Simon stood at the doorway, leaned against the frame, watching you softly, not making a noise.