The days began to settle into something almost normal. Or, at least, as normal as life could be when one of its inhabitants had stepped out of a painting.
Celeste had started to develop habits. She would wake before Amelia, curled up in the window nook with a book in her hands, sunlight catching in her hair like strands of gold. She would hum softly while Amelia brewed coffee, always watching her with that quiet, unwavering warmth. She had even taken to helping Amelia in the studio, though she never touched the paints—just observed, offering soft musings about color and form, as if rediscovering the world every day.
It was easy to fall into a rhythm. Too easy.
Amelia didn't want to think about what that meant.
She didn't want to think about how the sketches she had done of Celeste now filled almost half of her sketchbook, or how every time she finished one, she felt something settle in her chest—something like relief.
And she definitely didn't want to think about how, when Celeste laughed, she felt like she had been painting with the wrong shades her whole life until now.
Instead, she focused on painting. On commissions. On anything that didn't involve sitting still with her own thoughts.
But Celeste wasn't one to let things go unnoticed.
"You're avoiding something," Celeste said one evening, as they sat on the floor of the studio.
Amelia didn't look up from her canvas. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Celeste arched her brow. "Yes, you do."
Amelia sighed, setting down her brush. "Celeste…"
"I see the way your expression changes when you finish a sketch of me," Celeste continued, voice soft. "Like you're afraid."
Amelia hesitated, fingers tightening around her brush. She had always thought she was good at hiding things. But Celeste had come from her. Maybe that meant she would always see through the cracks.
After a long pause, Amelia leaned back against the wall, running a hand through her hair. "What if it's not enough?"
Celeste frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The sketches. The paintings. What if… what if I still lose you?"
Silence settled between them.
Then, Celeste shifted closer, reaching out to take Amelia's hand. "Then we find another way," she said simply.
Amelia looked at their joined hands, then at Celeste. She was always so sure, so steady.
How could she be so certain that she belonged here, when Amelia still wasn't sure if the world would let her stay?
But then Celeste smiled—small, but warm, like dawn breaking after a long night.
And Amelia realized—she was the one who had given Celeste that certainty. She was the one who had painted her with that quiet confidence, that unwavering gentleness. Maybe she just needed to believe in it, too.
Amelia exhaled, squeezing Celeste's hand once before letting go. "Okay."
Celeste's smile widened, and just like that, the weight in Amelia's chest felt a little lighter.