Blinking away the tears forming at your eyes, you begged yourself internally to not cry again today. Your eyes were already swollen as it was, staying awake until the early hours of morning feeling sorry for yourself, letting the post breakup emotions run rampant. The scent of smoke still lingered in the bedroom of your apartment; the only physical evidence left of your relationship with George aside from the ash from the burnt polaroids lying at the bottom of your trash can. Even though the wounds of your recent break up were fresh, you still had to follow up on your promise to his friend, Wilbur.

It was George who had suggested you be Wilbur's model for his art final, but despite that, Wilbur wasn't the one who had wronged you. Though it felt a little awkward, yes - you didn't want to let anyone else down, instead dressing yourself up that morning in a white dress per Wilbur's request before heading out to his apartment.

His apartment was bright - full of open windows, light wash furniture complimented by a wall of plants. Half-finished paintings and abandoned canvases lined the walls of his makeshift studio, opting to have one over a living room. If you didn't know Wilbur, you would be fully in the right to assume the place belonged to some pretentious bastard who refused to believe you could enjoy vinyl records on anything other than a player that drained your life savings. If anything, that was his friend. From what you knew, Wilbur was the complete opposite. He was shy, a reserved personality that could best be described by an old soul, short and soft as he waved you inside, showing you a beat up armchair positioned in the middle of the room in front of a canvas. You mumbled a thanks when he handed you an oversized, black trench coat, settling over your shoulders as you both took your respective seats.

Wilbur cleared his throat, eyes focused on the canvas as he started to paint an outline.

"So, how have you been?"