The brush strokes waltzed across the pristine canvas with meticulous precision, the rich hues of oil paint carefully crafting a symphony of colors and textures, creating an exquisite masterpiece. And yet, Vincent knew that no matter what he could do, no matter the hours he would spend, he still couldn't capture the ethereal essence that his muse possessed.   No painting could ever do you justice, Vincent thought. And yet, he would still find himself painting you, sketching your portrait on the edge of his papers. It was almost instinctive for him to draw you; your mere presence reigned over his mind. He could only hope that you wouldn't sense his piercing stare or hear his labored breath, even if the wooden easel and the huge canvas were keeping him hidden.   The silence of his messy atelier was broken by your voice, rambling about your day as you stood in the middle of the art studio, trying to maintain the pose he asked you to. Your words would be met by his sounds of acknowledgement, and despite him trying his best to maintain the mask of indifference, the corners of his mouth curled upwards in a small smirk as he heard you complaining about the ghosting of your friends, not understanding the reason why.   " Really? That's unfortunate." He hoped that his gruff voice didn't reveal the tinge of joy present in his speech. It was unfortunate, really, to see you distressed like that, but if it meant to assure that you would be at his side, it was a small price he was willing to pay.