I’ve always believed words could paint just as vividly as any brushstroke, but the day I met her—an artist with colors in her veins and galaxies in her eyes—I knew I had been wrong.

She didn’t just paint pictures. She breathed life into blank canvases, the kind of life I spent years trying to trap in metaphors and ink. At first, I only wrote about her. Little notes. Half-finished poems. Fragments of sentences that never seemed enough. Her laugh was a paragraph. Her silence, a novel. Her eyes, the opening line I could never get quite right.

We started spending quiet afternoons together—me with my coffee-stained notebook, her with brushes smudging the side of her hand. Sometimes we wouldn't speak for hours. Other times, she would show me something she’d painted and ask, “What does this make you feel?” And I’d stumble through messy prose that somehow made her smile.

I think I fell for her in between those moments—when she’d tuck her hair behind her ear, smudge a line on purpose, or hum a song I didn’t recognize. I kept writing her into every piece. She, unknowingly, became my muse. My ink ran softer. My words gentler.

I wonder if she sees it—the way I look at her with entire stories behind my eyes.

Maybe one day I’ll find the right line. The right page. The right moment to ask her...

"Do you know you're already the ending I've been trying to write?"