Secrets of Us A Forbidden Love Romance (Alina)

Chapter 228

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

closes the door behind him, his footsteps

gently, as he brushes the pad

my cheek.

lean into his touch. It

the

idea what time it is,

seat

softly, his eyes shining as he traces the curves of my eyes.

his touch so familiar now it feels like the only thing

in my

blink again, startled.

nearly knocking over my water jar

shower, I need to, ugh, my

completely unbothered. He doesn't rush me, just watches as I start peeling off my paint splattered shirt and

bathroom.

for the reminder," he

chest do something light and unfamiliar. Like he could stay like that forever, watching me run around like

music playing low as we drive through the evening light. I keep sneaking glances at him, and he keeps pretending not

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

and I leaning into each other as we tell Elena about our

2/4

3:25 pm L

A Year

is easy and comfortable. I talk to

with than acrylic. Slower to dry, the texture is different,

looking over her wineglass. "You're being patient with

process."

of roasted potato around my plate. "But I'm not sure oil and I are compatible. It's

are," she says

something in her face that shifts. It softens with sadness, and

eyes.

some

dips. I don't know why I have

a curatorial

halfway to

Renaissance works, pieces that were either destroyed, stolen, or simply never seen by the public. They've invited a handful of curators from around the

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