30. Blank Canvas
Samantha
When I wake up the next morning, Alexander has already left for the office. Emelyne rings the intercom at nine, and after a quick breakfast together, we set up in the guest room to work.
Emelyne draws on her tablet, comfortably propped up in bed, while I stand in front of my easel.
The stakes aren’t the same for her as they are for me. Her textile design work is digital and won’t be printed until closer to graduation. She’s mostly here for moral support—and her presence comforts me more than I care to admit.
Sitting in front of my blank canvas, I don’t know where to begin. Should I redo the destroyed paintings or continue the series as if nothing had happened? Pick up where I left off or start over entirely?
Minutes pass. The canvas remains stubbornly white. A blinding white that mirrors my helplessness.
Emelyne says nothing. She knows that in moments like these, I just need time.
Time to absorb the shock, the trauma—just like back then, when they took me in after Alexander got together with Kristel.
She was already there then, silent but present, letting me cry without judgment, without rushing me to “move on.”
She’s still here today. Faithful. Patient.
And I’m infinitely grateful to her.
She brings me a hot herbal tea, which I drink in silence by the window, watching Paris stretch out below.
With a third of my work gone, does my series still make sense?
A tear slides down my cheek, then another. I haven’t cried once since everything happened. Emelyne wraps me in her arms without a word, and in her protective embrace, I let my grief wash over me.
When I regain control of my emotions, I focus on what I can control: my work. I let go of my original project and sit down in front of the canvas to begin a new sketch.
What I love about Emelyne is that she never feels the need to fill the silence. We’re there for each other—and that’s enough.
At noon, we take a lunch break. Mara chooses that moment to give us an update.
“Everything’s moving along,” she says over the phone. “The lock has been replaced, and I even had an alarm system installed. We’ll be done cleaning by tonight. Tomorrow I’ll buy a few replacement items, and we can move back in as early as January 2nd.”
Behind her, I hear Inspector Sanders laughing and other male voices. No doubt about it—she’s well surrounded. We thank her warmly before hanging up.
“I wonder who all those ‘muscle guys’ are,” Emelyne says with a smirk.
“Mara probably recruited half the precinct.”
We laugh at the idea.
Not long after, I receive a text from Alexander.
Alexander: I hope everything’s going well. Thinking of you.
I reread the message to make sure I understand it correctly.
No question. No invitation to talk.
He’s not really expecting a reply. He’s not asking for details. Just a check-in.
Am I being too demanding?
Or is he walking on eggshells, unsure how to talk to me?
I reply in the same tone, keeping my distance.
Samantha: Everything’s going well. See you tonight.
Then I clear my mind and refocus on my work.
I don’t repaint what was lost. I can’t afford to lose that time. Instead, I move forward.
How do I turn this disaster into something meaningful?
How do I make my art grow from this loss?
How do I add a new dimension to my work?
An idea slowly takes shape. The fragility of art. Its vulnerability to destruction.
That’s it.
I reinforce my original theme.
Where I once sought transparency, I now add the ephemeral. The temporary. What can be erased, destroyed, lost.
I deepen the contrasts. My brushstrokes grow stronger.
Lines that break.
Forms that dissolve.
I work until exhaustion—until my arms give out, until my shoulders scream in pain.
It’s my way of taking control again.
Of turning destruction into creation.
*
Emelyne has already left when Alexander returns to the penthouse. We kiss hello. An automatic, almost mechanical ritual.
“Good day?” he asks, setting down his briefcase.
“Productive,” I reply.
“Good. I’m starving. If you don’t mind, I’d like us to eat quickly. I still have work to finish for tomorrow morning.”
I’m disappointed, but I don’t show it.
The day hasn’t come when I’ll beg a man for affection.
Dinner unfolds in distracted silence—though I’m not even sure he notices. He eats quickly, his mind already back on charts and analyses. I push the food around on my plate, watching this man who shares my table yet feels miles away.
“Are you okay?” he suddenly asks.
I look up. He’s watching me, a flicker of concern in his eyes.
“Yes. Why?”
“You barely ate.”
“I’m just not very hungry.”
He nods, accepts my answer without digging deeper.
Because digging would require time, attention, energy—things he clearly doesn’t have to give me tonight.
When he gets up to clear his plate, I stay seated, watching him rinse his dishes quickly before disappearing into his office.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he calls over his shoulder. “Just one last thing to finish.”
I don’t insist. What’s the point?
The bed feels enormous. Alexander’s absence weighs on me more than I want to admit. I lie down on what has become my side, curling in on myself slightly, as if trying to take up less space in this vast emptiness.
Minutes stretch. My eyelids grow heavy. I fight sleep for a while, waiting for the sound of his footsteps, the creak of the door, the familiar weight of his presence. But sleep eventually takes me.
Much later, through the haze of dreams, I feel the mattress sink gently. Alexander slips into bed carefully, as if afraid of waking me.
He moves closer. His hand brushes my shoulder—light, hesitant. His warm breath grazes my neck. He stays like that for a long time, so close I can feel the heat of his body against mine.
I hold my breath. I wait.
I think he’s going to kiss me—press a kiss into my hair.
But he doesn’t.
He pulls back softly and takes his place on his side of the bed, respecting the space that has opened up between us.
In the dark, eyes closed, I remain still, my heart tight.
I don’t know where this restraint comes from. Should I be relieved—or devastated?
Is it respect for my sleep or distance?
Maybe he no longer knows how to touch me.
That thought hurts—because I no longer know how to be with him either. I want to turn around, face him, break the silence.
But I don’t move.
Because I’m afraid of what he might say. Worse—of what he might not say.
So I stay there in the dark, pretending to sleep, while he settles on his side of the bed.
And between us, the silence stretches on—heavy with everything we’re not saying.