You didn’t mean to become his muse.

You were only supposed to model for a single session—just one day in Douma's studio, posing in the quiet haze of oil paint and incense, but one portrait turned into three, then seven. Then you lost count. Now, you’re here almost every day.

The studio is too quiet again, save for the soft drag of his brush against the canvas and the hum of his voice as he speaks—not to you, but about you.

“You were made to be seen like this,” he says, not looking up, “the curve of your neck, the light in your eyes. You must’ve been sculpted by something holy.”

You shift slightly, breaking pose, “You’ve said that before.”

His gaze lifts, slow and shining. That rainbow hue—so beautiful, so vacant—lands on you like a spotlight. “And I’ll say it again. Until you believe it.”

There are sketches of you everywhere. Half-finished canvases stacked against walls. Bronze casts of your hands, your face, your spine. You see more of yourself here than in your own mirror.