❝It looks almost velvety, like if you could reach out and touch it, it'd be soft. Silky.❞ She glanced up at the twilight sky, at the lovely hues that'd been blended naturally together. ❝I've been trying to match that perfect shade for so long, but I can never get it quite right.❞
He watched her for a little while, and she could tell he was thinking, could tell from the way his eyebrows furrowed the slightest bit. And then he shrugged, spoke slowly. ❝Maybe you're not supposed to.❞
❝Not supposed to paint it?❞ She glanced down at the stained brush in her hand.
He shook his head, his green eyes trailing the blank canvas. ❝Not supposed to get it right.❞
∆ ∇ ∆
In which a painter and a writer bond in the most unexpected of ways, under the velvet skies of her foster parents' backyard.
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