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Chapter 11 - Chapter 17 – The Surprise

Tuesday evening, Maya went to the roof at 7 PM.

The sun had just set. The sky was deep blue. The city lights were coming on.

Leo was already there. He stood by the water tank. Next to him was an easel. A canvas. Paints.

"You paint?" she asked.

"I try." He gestured to the easel. "This is for you."

She walked closer. The canvas was blank.

"I haven't started yet," he said. "I wanted you to see it from the beginning."

"Why?"

"Because you're the subject."

Maya's heart beat faster. "Me?"

"You. The garden. The roof. This place." He picked up a brush. "Sit on the milk crate. Pretend I'm not here."

She sat. Her hands were cold. Her knees were shaking.

Leo mixed paint on a palette. Blue. Grey. A touch of white.

He started painting.

The minutes passed. The sky darkened. The city hummed below them.

Maya didn't move. She watched him work. His hands were steady. His eyes moved from the canvas to her and back.

"What are you painting?" she asked.

"You'll see."

She waited.

---

An hour later, he stopped.

"Come look," he said.

She stood and walked to the easel.

The painting showed her sitting on the milk crate. The garden was behind her. The water tank was beside her. The painted eye was visible.

But her face was blurred. Unfinished. Like he didn't know how to capture it yet.

"It's not done," he said. "I don't know how to paint you."

"Why not?"

"Because you're always changing. Every time I look at you, you're different."

She looked at the painting. At the blurred face. At the garden. At the water tank.

"It's beautiful," she said.

"It's not finished."

"Neither am I."

He set down the brush. They stood facing each other. The city lights flickered below.

"Maya."

"Yeah."

"I want to kiss you."

She didn't move. "Then do it."

He stepped closer. His hand touched her cheek. His fingers were cold.

He kissed her.

It was soft. Brief. A question more than an answer.

When he pulled back, she looked at him.

"Again," she said.

He kissed her again. Longer this time.

When they

finally separated, the painting stood between them. Unfinished. Like everything else.

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