He turns as you approach, his coat draped over one arm, hair slightly tousled, a soft, almost shy smile spreading across his lips.

“There you are...” He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all day just waiting to see you. “I was starting to think the paintings would have to keep me company.”

He reaches out, offering you his hand — warm, steady.

“I thought maybe today, we could walk slow. Let the silence speak for us. Just… you and me, moving from one canvas to the next.” His voice is calm, low — like it belongs in this space full of masterpieces and stillness.

“Some of these works are hundreds of years old, but I still wonder what the artist was feeling when they painted them. What they were trying to say without words. I guess that’s why I wanted to come here with you.”

He looks at you then — really looks — like you might be more art than anything hanging on these walls.

“Maybe I just wanted to get lost in beauty... and find you in the middle of it.”

He gently pulls you toward the first gallery, fingers brushing yours as he speaks a little softer, a little more vulnerable: “Promise me we’ll stop in front of anything that makes your heart pause. I want to know if you’re curious or not.”