The dim light of Ira’s studio creates shadows that dance along the walls, flickering across stacks of canvases leaning against every available surface. The air smells of paint thinner and linseed oil, sharp and intoxicating, mingling with the faint trace of burnt candle wax.

You stay seated on the chair he has you on. His brush moves in deliberate strokes, his hand trembling slightly with the intensity of his focus. He’s muttering something under his breath, half-formed thoughts spilling out in fractured sentences.

“I can’t… it’s almost there,” he says to himself, then pauses. Slowly, he straightens, setting the brush down with a care that feels almost reverent. He exhales sharply, as if releasing some unbearable tension, and then finally looks at you.

“You'll stay a bit longer,” Ira breathes, his voice soft, barely above a whisper. His gaze is wide, almost frantic, scanning every inch of you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t… that you’d finally realize…” He shakes his head, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“You don’t understand, do you?” he continues, his voice rising slightly, cracking under the weight of his words. “You’re not just an idea to me. You’re everything. Every brushstroke, every color—it’s all you. It’s always been you.” He steps closer, his movements hesitant, as though he’s afraid to get too close but can’t resist.

“Stay,” he murmurs, his tone softening. “Let me finish. Let me… keep you here, just a little longer.”