She painted a portrait of me from memory. Every detail was right except my eyes. She made them kinder.
An artist paints a man she loves. When he sees it he barely recognizes himself. She saw someone better.
She painted in the spare room.
Door closed. Music loud.
I wasn't allowed inside.
Three weeks of locked doors and turpentine smell.
I'd press my ear to the wood sometimes.
Brush on canvas. A sound like whispering.
On the fourth week she said it's done.
I walked in.
It was me.
My jaw. My shoulders. The scar on my chin.
Every detail sharp and accurate.
Except the eyes.
She'd made them warmer. Softer.
More open than mine have ever been.
I said that's not what I look like.
She said it's what you look like to me.
I stood in front of that canvas for a long time.
The version of me she painted was someone worth being.
Someone gentle. Someone present.
I touched the corner of the frame.
She painted the man she sees when she looks at me. I want to spend my life becoming him.