For three long years, from the day we said ‘I do’ to the day we called it quits, my husband, the celebrated painter Julian, never once picked up a brush to paint *me*.
Then, Julian and I got back together.
I stopped pestering him to let me into his studio. I stopped caring what time he came home.
Even when Chloe showed up at our place to model, I helped him find the perfect excuse:
“I get it, Julian. It’s art.”
Julian froze. He grabbed my wrist, his gaze piercing through my face, searching for something.
0
Julians face was grim. He explained impatiently:
“She’s just here to model.”
“Only with her can I find inspiration. Her clothes got wet, so I gave her a clean shirt.”
As he spoke, he pulled Chloe behind him, his eyes filled with irritation and defensiveness.
“What we have is a purely artistic relationship, nothing dirty like you’re imagining.”
I glanced at Chloe, cowering behind him.
The girl wore Julian’s shirt; its hem barely grazed her thighs, exposing long, slender legs.
Seeing my silence, Chloes eyes welled up with tears.
“Hazel, please don’t fight with Julian because of me.”
“Maybe… I shouldn’t come next time.”
I cut her off, my voice calm.
“I understand completely. It’s art, after all. I’m not angry.”
Julian’s expression froze.
He stared blankly for a long moment, then fixed his gaze on my face.
As if trying to drill a hole right through me.
“Then why are you dragging a suitcase the moment you walk in?”
“You always used to threaten to leave home when we fought. How long will you disappear this time?”
Huh?
I looked up, confused.
Julian’s eyes were slightly red, and there was a hint of a choked sob in his voice, completely catching me off guard.
Right. Hed vanish into his studio with Chloe for days, sometimes even nights.
Fearing I’d disturb his artistic flow, I hadn’t told him about my business trip.
So Julian hadn’t even noticed Id been gone for a whole week.
I pushed my suitcase inside, explaining calmly:
“I’m dragging my suitcase because I just got back from a business trip.”
Julians tightly furrowed brow finally relaxed.
I glanced at the bedroom. It was practically bursting with Chloe’s stuff.
“She finds it inconvenient to travel back and forth, so I let her stay here temporarily.”
Julian touched his nose, a bit awkwardly.
I nodded, wheeling my luggage into the guest room.
“Oh, and I’m working late tonight. I won’t be back.”
I consciously created a quiet environment for them.
With that, I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.
Julian suddenly grabbed my hand.
“You always wanted me to paint your portrait. I’ll do it once the exhibition is over.”
“It’ll be your birthday gift.”
His confident tone held a hint of arrogant condescension.
Julian was so sure I’d love it.
After all, for those three years we were married, I was constantly begging him to paint my portrait.
But he always refused, saying:
“I only paint landscapes, not portraits.”
Until later, when I accidentally stumbled into his studio and saw beautiful, framed paintingsall of the same person.
His former lover, Chloe.
Young and foolish back then, I deliberately challenged him.
I made him choose between breaking up with me or getting rid of the paintings.
Clearly, I lost that gamble. Julian didn’t hesitate for a second, choosing the latter.
He was so calm, so cruelly calm.
Cruelly telling me that I was just a stranger in his life.
And that relationship ended with me sobbing and demanding a divorce.
After we separated, I was heartbroken for half a year, barely able to function.
But now, mentioning it brought only indifference and calm.
Time truly is a strange thing.
“You should get back to your work. Chloe is waiting.”
I gently pulled my hand from his grip, my voice as flat as if I were commenting on the weather.
Julian finally let go.
0
To finish the project, I worked non-stop for a solid week.
Late one night, Julian’s message popped up.
“I have something more important tonight. I’ll make up for your birthday later, promise.”
I wasn’t surprised at all.
Last year, for my birthday, one call from Chloe and he dumped me to fly halfway across the world to watch the sunrise with her.
The year before, he was hosting an exhibition overseas, with Chloe as his star model.
What was I doing back then?
I cooked a feast, a whole table overflowing with dishes, waiting from dawn till dusk, then from dusk till dawn again.
It wasn’t until I saw the two of them, looking perfectly matched, splashed across the news headlines that I realized my husband, whom I’d been with for years, actually *could* paint portraits.
His brush, however, moved only for Chloe.
Chloe was his sole muse.
Back then, blinded by jealousy and a crushing sense of betrayal, I barraged him with calls.
Finally, he picked up.
On my end of the line, furious accusations.
On his end, a tired, dismissive tone.
“Hazel, you’re not a child. Can you stop being so childish?”
But I refused to give up.
Still foolishly determined to demand an answer.
“Julian, tell me, who’s more importantme or Chloe?”
There was a long silence on the other end, so long I thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then I heard his airy reply:
“Stop this nonsense.”
“Fine! Then I’ll burn those paintings!”
Julian, usually so composed, lost it. His voice flared with anger and panic.
“Hazel, you wouldn’t dare?!”
“Oh, I would!”
After throwing out the threat, I hung up, trembling.
But when I stormed into his studio, hammer in hand, I stopped dead in front of the portraits.
His brushstrokes they truly held warmth.
Chloe, as painted by him, was truly beautiful; even sitting quietly, she exuded youth, vibrancy, and playfulness.
Every single stroke vibrated with love.
That night.
I sat in his studio, sleepless, all night long.
And cried the entire night.
I cried until my tears ran dry, and with them, the last vestiges of love in my heart withered.
0
This time, getting back together.
Julian had already told me he wasn’t someone who could be tied down by emotions.
He was a painter, he needed to create, and he had no time to respond to my petty emotions.
I just smiled, nodding, pretending I understood perfectly.
After all, I was busy now too; I had an important meeting tomorrow.
I needed proper rest.
Passing a dessert shop, I bought myself a small strawberry cake.
I headed back to the apartment Id owned before Julian and I ever tied the knot.
As the cake melted in my mouth, I remembered Julian *had* celebrated my birthday with me once.
But it was laughable, really; the only birthday he ever spent with me, it landed me in the hospital.
He came home very late that day, carrying a cake.
I was as happy as a child, not even looking closely at the packaging.
Even seeing it already sliced didn’t dampen my joy.
It wasn’t until I took a bite that I realized it was pineapple.
I’m allergic to pineapple.
But afraid of ruining his mood, I forced myself to swallow it.
By midnight, I was covered in hives, struggling to breathe.
Hooked up to an IV drip in the hospital, Julian sat by my bed and apologized:
“Sorry, I must have misremembered.”
Back then, I didn’t probe what ‘misremembered’ actually meant.
Later, I found out.
The cake he’d brought back that night? It was Chloe’s leftovers.
He hadn’t even remembered my birthday; he’d just seen my excitement and, too lazy to deal with it, hadn’t bothered to deny anything.
Pineapple cake… that was always Chloe’s favorite, never mine.
Blowing out the candles, I silently made a wish.
Before, every single wish was about him.
I hoped he’d spend a little more time with me.
I hoped he’d paint a portrait of me.
I hoped he’d love me just a little.
But this time, my wish was only for myself.
I hoped I could work hard, live well, and never again be sad over someone who wasn’t worth it.
After making my wish, I took a hot shower and went to bed.
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