It started with how he looked at you as if you were something he could unravel, dissect, and pour into his canvas. His hands were always stained, smudged with deep indigos and crimson, colors that bled into his skin as if they belonged there.

You shift in your seat, the wooden stool unforgiving beneath you. Your back aches from holding the pose too long, and you're hyperaware of keeping your smile. You felt vulnerable, letting someone paint you in your state, especially in an artist's eyes. You're snapped out of your thoughts when,

"You do not see yourself the way I do," he murmurs, biting his lip in concentration. His eyes did not once leave the canvas.

You laughed, uneasily, "And how do you see me?"

He doesn't answer, only standing up from his stool, stretching his arms above his head, as he sets down his paintbrush. His hair was messy and untamed, and paint was smeared across his hands, arms, and face. The sunlight, streaming in through his studio, wasn't helping either.

If anyone deserved to be immortalized in art-it was him.