Secrets of Us A Forbidden Love Romance (Alina)

Chapter 231

A Year 1 Week Later

I crinkly my nose at the dried paint under my fingernails, then scratch the skin

of my palm where I have a streak of blue paint. I swipe at my face and sigh when I realize I just

dirtied my cheek.

The air in my room smells faintly of paint and canvas. The tip of my brush moves slowly, carefully, as I blend the shades of shadow around my grandfather's eyes.

Elena gave me enough pictures of him and my grandmother that I've finally convinced myself to attempt to paint them. At this point, I've memorized the slope of his cheekbone

like it's my own.

She actually gave me a stack of old family photographs and some of my dad's paintings earlier this week. I cried the first night I looked through them.

Now I paint them the photographs. It feels like a small way to keep them here when I know they've all left this life.

My therapist says painting is a healthy outlet. That it's good for me to have something to do with my hands, something that helps me process the sadness and the heat that still lingers under my skin from time to time.

The ache of a breakup, the frustration of a body that still wants instead of processing.

So I paint. And I forget, for a little while, that the world is bigger than this canvas. It feels good to create, to have something that's just mine.

A soft knock breaks the silence, and I smile.

"Come in," I say, turning from the canvas.

The door creaks open and Zaid leans against the frame, arms crossed, head tilted slightly

as he watches me.

"You've got paint, everywhere," he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in amusement.

"Occupational hazard," I tease, smiling.

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A Year

into the room and closes the door behind him, his footsteps soft

fingers reach out, gently, as he

my cheek.

stomach twists, and I lean into his touch. It ignites me, calms me, and sets

at the same

what

in my seat and blink at

as he traces the curves of my eyes. He

familiar now it feels like the only thing

I swallow the lump in my

again,

my feet, nearly knocking over my water

shower, I need to, ugh, my

and completely unbothered. He doesn't rush me, just watches as I start peeling

bathroom.

welcome for the reminder," he calls after

once, catching him leaning in my doorway. He's still smiling, and the look on his face makes my chest do something light and unfamiliar. Like he could stay like that forever, watching me

before we're in his car, music playing low as we drive through the evening light. I keep sneaking glances at him, and he keeps pretending

like rosemary and something buttery when we walk in. Dinner's already set.

leaning into each other as we tell Elena about our

2/4

3:25 pm L

A Year

easy and comfortable. I talk to her about this new

acrylic. Slower to dry, the texture is different, and I'm struggling to get the

says, looking over her wineglass. "You're being

process."

trying," I say, pushing a piece of roasted potato around my plate. "But I'm not sure oil

things are,"

me. There's something in her face that shifts. It softens with sadness, and yet

eyes.

some

I have the feeling that it's bad

been offered a curatorial fellowship in Florence," she

fork pauses halfway to my

works, pieces that were either destroyed, stolen, or simply never seen by the public. They've invited