Isabella Iero and Damon Albarn had known each other since they were sixteen, when they ended up sharing the last desk in the classroom simply because there was no other option. From then on, they were inseparable. They grew up together, went through college entrance exams, breakups, awkward phases, and dreams too big for the small town they lived in. To Isabella, Damon had always been special — not in a romantic way, at least not openly — but because of the way he saw the world. Damon had been drawing since his teenage years. He sketched in notebooks, on napkins, on improvised walls. He painted as easily as he breathed, yet rarely spoke about his own talent. Isabella, on the other hand, made a point of reminding him of it every single day. “You’re unbelievably good at this.” She would say, watching him mix paints with focus. “One day the world is going to notice.” He always smiled sideways, as if he didn’t fully believe it. On a rainy night, years later, Isabella was lying on Damon’s bed, staring at the ceiling covered in old paint marks. The room smelled of oil paint and turpentine. The silence was comfortable, broken only by the rain tapping against the window. “Do you know what my dream is?” Damon suddenly said, his voice low. “Here we go.” She replied, turning her face toward him. “To paint something like Rose’s portrait in Titanic. That intensity… that vulnerability. Something like that could finally push my career forward as a painter.”