Canvas Of Us

First things first: My name’s Aria, and art basically runs through my veins—like, if you cut me, I swear paint might drip out. My mom was this brilliant painter who had her own little place in the art scene. She wasn’t super famous or anything, but in our family, she was basically a legend. And when she passed away two years ago, it felt like I lost not just a parent but also the one person who truly got me.

(Lesbian Romance Story)

So, here I am, taking classes at this prestigious art studio in New York City—literally the kind of place where you’re expected to show up wearing that perfectly paint-splattered apron and carrying a portfolio stuffed with brilliance. My instructors are super tough, but they see me as “Lillian Blake’s daughter,” my mom’s name. That alone loads a pressure on my shoulders heavier than Times Square traffic at rush hour. Everyone expects me to create something incredible, like a freaking masterpiece to honor her memory. No big deal, right?

But here’s the twist, sweetie: I’ve been stuck. Massive, miserable painter’s block. Days go by, and my brush just trembles over blank canvases. My dad (who’s always been more of the stoic type) keeps gently reminding me how important this piece is. My big brother, Adrian, tries to help by throwing random ideas at me. Everyone’s on my back about it, and I’m starting to crack under the weight of their expectations. I felt like I was walking around with an anvil on my chest—like, let me breathe, people!

Okay, so let’s talk about my brother’s ex-girlfriend, Elena. If you think that’s a weird place to focus, trust me, you have no idea how weird things got. Let me set the scene:

Adrian and Elena broke up about a month ago—ugly breakup, apparently. I only heard bits and pieces like, “She’s too independent for me,” from Adrian, or “He just doesn’t get my priorities,” from Elena. I didn’t pry too much; I had my own meltdown going on over my unfinished painting.

Then, out of nowhere, Elena texts me. I was in the studio, literally face-planted on my desk from exhaustion (and maybe from a sugar crash after too many jelly donuts—don’t judge). My phone buzzed, and I see her name. My heart did this weird flippy thing—like, “Wait, why am I excited to hear from my brother’s ex?” But I shrugged it off as curiosity.

She was like, “Hey, babe! Long time no talk. I heard you’re looking for a muse?” Girl, let me tell you, I was so confused because I never actually announced I was looking for a muse—Adrian must have mentioned something. But I was also intrigued, you know? Elena has this confidence about her that you can practically smell from a mile away—like that sweet and spicy perfume she always wears.

I met up with her at this little café near campus. She walked in wearing these black ankle boots and a cropped sweater that made her look like she just stepped off a runway. Meanwhile, I was slouching in a corner, wearing paint-stained jeans and sipping cold coffee. When she spotted me, she flashed me this grin that felt more like a challenge than a greeting. And oh my gosh, her hair? It’s this gorgeous dark brown that cascades over her shoulders, like it’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial. She’s the kind of woman who, when she walks into a room, you notice—and I mean, you notice.

We started chatting about my painting woes. She offered, “I could pose for you. I’ve always wanted to do something artsy, and I love your style.” She said it so casually, like I was being offered an everyday favor. But, sweetie, let’s be real: I was definitely struck by her presence in a way I couldn’t quite put into words.

The next day, Elena came to my mom’s old art studio—the one I inherited. It smells like turpentine and old books, and the walls are splashed with half-finished sketches from my teenage years. The lighting is perfect though—broad windows with sunlight pouring in.

Elena showed up in a loose-fitting white blouse and tight black pants that seemed tailor-made to make me notice every little detail of her silhouette. She teased, “Got your brushes ready, Picasso?” and I shot back, “Uh, yes, sweetie, but the real question is—are you ready to sit still for hours?” She laughed and we set up the easel, popped open some tubes of paint, and started playing some indie music softly in the background.

For the first hour, we kept things professional. I’d ask her to tilt her head a certain way, or hold her hand in a poised manner. She’d respond with these gentle, mesmerizing movements. But our conversation started to wander beyond small talk: we talked about her job as a freelance writer, how she loves traveling alone, how she felt overshadowed by my brother’s career goals. I started opening up about the pressure of living under Mom’s legacy.

That’s when I felt a flicker of something…closeness. I mean, I’ve known I was attracted to women for a while now. I tried once or twice to come out to my family, but I always chickened out. My father especially is kind of old-school, not exactly homophobic in a “burn the witches” sense, but he always talked about me finding the “right man” someday. I guess I never truly set him straight—pun unintended.

Anyway, by the time I finished the sketch outline, Elena was leaning in close to check it out. Her arm brushed mine, and a jolt of electricity zipped through me—like I could suddenly hear my own heartbeat in my ears. She must’ve felt something too, because she lingered in that spot, eyes scanning the drawing, but her body was pressed to mine in this comfortable, intimate way. In that moment, the world outside the studio felt nonexistent. My father, my brother, my responsibilities—everything faded.

Elena became my muse in more ways than one. For the next week, she came by every afternoon. We’d spend hours painting and talking. Our laughter would echo through the studio. She started bringing iced coffees and pastries, and I’d greet her with a playful, “Hey babe, you’re a lifesaver,” because I was so starved for not just sugar, but her presence.

She confided things in me—like how Adrian never quite made her feel comfortable, that he’d crack jokes about her dedication to activism or her love of dance. She admitted she felt emotionally stifled in their relationship. I was quick to reassure her, “Girl, you deserve someone who respects every inch of who you are.” But inside, I was wrestling with the guilt of wanting her for myself, even though she’d dated my brother.

And then came the day it all changed. I was painting a portrait of her face, focusing on the curve of her lips and the spark in her eyes. The air felt thick with tension, like we were both leaning too close to a flame. She said, softly, “Aria, can I see it so far?” I turned the easel around, and she stepped forward, scanning the canvas. Her eyes got glassy, and she whispered, “I look... I look so alive in your art.”

Something about the way she said it made me drop my guard completely. I set my brush aside. She looked at me—really looked at me—and I swear every nerve ending in my body lit up. She asked, “Do you want to paint more than my face?” and her voice was barely above a whisper, but it was like a thunderclap in my chest.

I’m not sure who moved first, but suddenly her lips were on mine, warm and soft. My hands found her waist. We stumbled back against the table covered in paint tubes. One of them rolled off and clattered onto the floor, snapping us back to reality. We parted, breathless, heartbeats thrumming.

She giggled in this shy but ecstatic way, and I felt my cheeks burn pink. I wanted to say something witty or cool, but all I managed was, “Wow… okay…” She broke into a grin, “Yeah… that was… unexpected but also not?” We both laughed, that kind of shaky laugh people do when they’re excited and scared at the same time.

We decided to keep things low-key. With my painting deadline looming, and with Adrian in the picture, we didn’t want to complicate anything. But oh my goodness, sweetie, it’s like once the dam broke, we couldn’t stop. We’d have these hushed late-night phone calls where we’d talk for hours about our days, our fears, and random silly stuff. She’d call me “baby girl,” and I'd get this full-body tingle like she’d just whispered some grand love confession.

Every painting session from then on was charged with this undercurrent of heat. Her eyes would follow me around the room, and we’d brush hands while mixing paints. I’d lightly trace her collarbone with my fingertips, pretending I was just studying her form for the portrait. In reality, I was memorizing every inch of her, because I couldn’t help it.

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