No More Waiting, She Chooses Love

I spent a few seconds lost in thought before grabbing a book from the bookshelf and sprawling out on the couch to read, completely immersed until our housekeeper, called me down for dinner.

"You look even prettier in person than in the paintings, Miss Felicia," The housekeeper remarked just as I was about to dig into dinner, catching me off guard.

"Paintings? What paintings?" I asked, puzzled.

The housekeeper chuckled, "The ones Mr. Wagner painted, all of them are of you. They're up in the studio on the second floor."

I had been out on the balcony earlier and passed by the second floor, but I hadn't ventured into any of the rooms, unaware of any studio.

What struck me most was that Dustin painted - this was news to me. We lived together before he went abroad, grew up together, yet he never once mentioned taking up painting. Could he have learned in these past four years? And all the paintings were of me?

Seeing the housekeeper bustling about the kitchen, I wondered if she was mistaken. After all, she's from a different country and might not differentiate faces as we do, much like how I view Westerners.

Even though I was skeptical, curiosity won out. After a few bites, I found myself heading upstairs.

the

walk-in closet, until I reached a

had to

see for myself, but without the passcode, I was stuck. After mulling over it for a few seconds, I tried Dustin's birthday. Incorrect. If not his

how little I knew about him now. We barely spoke when we lived together, my attention always

met

the country, we lost touch completely.

it dawned on me - if the studio was full of my portraits, could the

heard the lock disengage. Instead of feeling like a winner,

evidently

I pushed the door open to find the

my

award-winning moments, ridiel

the wind, and even sitting on