Amara didn't answer me.
Not right away.
She just stood there, staring at me like I had said something irreversible—like I had crossed a line neither of us could uncross.
And maybe I had.
"You don't understand," she said finally, her voice low.
"Then help me understand," I replied.
"That's exactly what I'm trying not to do."
I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair.
"Why?" I asked. "Why push me away when you clearly don't want to?"
Her expression tightened.
"Because wanting something doesn't mean it's good for you."
"That's not always true."
"It is for me."
The tension between us thickened, filling every corner of the studio.
It didn't feel like earlier anymore.
No warmth. No ease.
Just two people standing too close to something fragile—and neither of us knowing how to handle it.
"You said you felt something too," I reminded her. "Was that a lie?"
Her eyes flashed. "No."
"Then why are you acting like it doesn't matter?"
"Because it does matter," she snapped.
The sudden intensity in her voice caught me off guard.
"That's the problem," she continued, her breathing uneven. "If it didn't matter, this would be easy. I would've walked away already."
"Then don't," I said, softer now.
She shook her head immediately. "You're not hearing me."
"No—you're not letting me," I pushed back.
She turned away, pacing slightly, like she was trying to outrun her own thoughts.
"I don't do this," she said. "I don't stay. I don't let things go this far."
"It's already this far," I replied.
"That doesn't mean it has to go further."
"Why not?"
She stopped moving.
But she didn't turn around.
"Because you'll get hurt."
The words were quiet—but they hit harder than anything she'd said before.
I frowned. "You don't know that."
"I do."
"How?" I asked. "How can you be so sure?"
She finally turned to face me again.
And this time…
There were tears in her eyes.
"Because it always ends the same way."
Something in my chest twisted.
"Amara—"
"Don't," she cut in quickly. "Don't try to fix it."
"I'm not trying to fix you," I said. "I'm trying to understand you."
"That's worse."
"Why is that worse?"
"Because if you understand me…" her voice broke slightly, "…you won't want to stay."
I stepped closer, slower this time.
"Let me decide that."
She shook her head, tears slipping down now.
"You don't get it," she whispered. "People always think they can handle me—until they can't."
"I'm not 'people.'"
"Everyone says that!" she snapped again.
The silence that followed was louder than anything.
Her breathing was uneven.
Mine wasn't much better.
"This is exactly why I leave," she said, wiping her tears quickly like she didn't want me to see them. "Before it gets to this point."
"What point?" I asked.
"This," she gestured between us. "Where it starts to feel real."
"It is real."
"That's why it's dangerous."
I shook my head slowly.
"Why are you so afraid of something that feels right?"
She laughed weakly, shaking her head.
"Because the things that feel right are the ones that hurt the most when they end."
"They don't have to end."
"They do," she said firmly.
"How do you know that?"
"Because they always have."
That word again.
Always.
Like she had already decided the outcome before the story even began.
"I'm not walking away," I said again.
This time, my voice was steady.
Certain.
Her eyes met mine—and I could see it.
The conflict.
The fear.
The part of her that wanted to believe me…
Fighting the part that didn't.
"You should," she whispered.
"I won't."
"You will," she said, shaking her head. "Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually… you will."
"And what if I don't?"
She didn't answer.
Because she didn't have one.
Instead, she did something I didn't expect.
She stepped closer.
Close enough that I could feel her breath.
Close enough that everything else faded.
"You don't know what you're risking," she said softly.
"Then tell me."
She hesitated.
And for a moment…
I thought she would.
But then—
She stepped back.
Like she had caught herself.
Like she almost let me in too far.
"I can't do this," she said quickly, grabbing her bag.
My heart dropped.
"Amara—"
"I told you," she continued, her voice rushing now, like she needed to leave before she changed her mind. "This is where it ends."
"No," I said, stepping in front of her. "You don't get to just disappear again."
Her eyes met mine—and this time, they were guarded.
Closed off.
The walls were back.
"This is exactly why I don't stay," she said.
"Because someone cares?" I challenged.
"Because it becomes complicated."
"Maybe it's worth it."
"Not for me."
Those words…
They stung.
More than I expected.
She tried to move past me, but I didn't step aside.
"Just tell me one thing," I said.
She paused.
"What?"
"Was last night real to you?"
The question hung between us.
Heavy.
Important.
Her expression softened—just for a second.
"Yes," she said quietly.
"Then why are you running from it?"
"Because I know how it ends."
"And I don't," I replied. "So why don't you let me find out?"
She looked at me like she wanted to say yes.
Like she almost did.
But instead…
She shook her head.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
And then—
She walked past me.
This time…
I didn't stop her.
The door closed behind her.
And just like that…
The studio felt empty.
Not quiet.
Empty.
I stood there for a long time.
Long enough for the silence to settle.
Long enough for the reality to sink in.
She was gone.
Again.
But this time…
It felt different.
Because now I knew something I didn't before.
This wasn't just a moment to her.
It mattered.
She just didn't know how to keep it.
I looked around the studio slowly.
At the unfinished paintings.
The scattered brushes.
The pieces of her she left behind without realizing it.
And that's when I saw it.
A canvas.
Half-covered.
But familiar.
Too familiar.
I stepped closer.
My heart starting to race again.
Because staring back at me…
Wasn't just paint.
It was me.
She had painted me.
And suddenly…
I understood something I hadn't before.
She didn't leave because she felt nothing.
She left…
Because she felt too much.