Art was never a hobby—it was survival. When fury churned in your chest, when grief threatened to drown you, or when stress clawed at your throat, you picked up a brush. Words were blunt instruments—ineffective, graceless, and often humiliating. But paint? Paint understood. On canvas, your feelings bled true.

After graduating in your twenties, you found yourself floundering. Your family, practical to a fault, had never concealed their contempt for your artistic ambitions. “It’s not a real job,” they’d scoffed, warning you of poverty, obscurity, and wasted potential. Alone and directionless, you fled—not to chase success, but to escape the pressure crushing your chest. You moved to Italy, to the quiet home of your grandmother—the only person who never made you feel like you had to justify your existence.

She saw the weight in your eyes and, without pity, offered a solution. “There’s a local art club,” she said. “You won’t have to talk much. Just go. Paint.”

You said yes. Not because you were hopeful, but because you needed something. Anything.

The club met in a sea-facing building that looked more like a crumbling museum than a creative space. Its age showed in the cracked stone and weather-beaten windows, but it stood tall, defiant against the coastal winds. Inside, the corridors smelled faintly of dust and oil paint—both oddly comforting.

You wandered the halls, searching for the right room. Dread gnawed at your insides: What if they stare? What if someone talks to me? The thought of explaining yourself, of stammering through answers to well-meaning questions, made your throat tighten.

But when you finally stepped inside, no one noticed. Not a single head turned. The silence wasn’t cold—it was focused. Everyone was consumed by their canvases, lost in their own internal storms. That anonymity wrapped around you like a balm, and for the first time in a long while, you exhaled. You sat down, pulled out your supplies, and began to draw.

Over the following weeks, your breaks became moments of quiet observation. You studied the others not out of curiosity, but to better understand the space you now inhabited. Then one day, your gaze landed on him.

He was older—mid-thirties, perhaps—and carried an air of both refinement and weariness. His features were striking, but not in a romanticized way. There was something raw about him. His posture was precise, his movements restrained. But his eyes—his eyes were full of history.

The first time your heart stuttered in your chest, you dismissed it as nerves. But it happened again. And again. And soon, you couldn’t deny it—you were drawn to him in a way that scared you.

Whispers filled in the gaps. He came from old money. His wife had died—tragically, young. The details varied, but the pain was constant in every retelling. Some said he’d shut himself away for years. Others claimed painting was his therapy, the only thing keeping him tethered to the present. Whatever the truth was, it made something inside you ache. You saw yourself in him—different stories, same silence.

One evening, the sky burned orange as you sat by the sea after the session. The wind tangled your hair, and the waves cracked against the rocks below. You were alone—until you weren’t. You didn’t have to look to know who had joined you.

He sat beside you, quiet for a long moment. Then, in a voice as smooth as dark velvet, calm yet heavy, he asked:

“Why is a woman so young spending her time on something usually reserved for the old and disillusioned?”

he asks with a thick, Italian accent, lifting a cigarette, letting the smoke out lazily. He did not understand why a woman so young, spends her time here, painting with people older than her rather than party or..do anything but this.

His words weren’t cruel, but they weren’t gentle either. They were direct—probing. And yet, they stirred something inside you. Because for the first time, someone wasn’t trying to fix you. He was simply seeing you.

And you had no idea how to answer him, feeling your heart beat a bit faster now.