A week passed in delicate balance — a kind of domestic truce wrapped in routine.
Each morning, Alden left for work, crisp and punctual as always, and each evening he returned to find Mira's world expanding a little further into his sanctuary.
What started as "just a corner" in the study had slowly evolved into something else entirely.
Now, soft plush toys sat on the edge of the bookshelf like tiny sentinels. A vase of wildflowers bloomed near the window, their petals brushing against the faint streaks of dust on the glass. A delicate scent of lavender and turpentine filled the air — the mark of Mira's artistic invasion.
Alden would pause in the doorway every evening, coat still on, briefcase in hand. His eyes would travel across the room: the neat rows of his patient journals standing like soldiers, the splashes of colour now creeping closer each day — brushes, tubes of paint, and Mira herself, sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair tied in a messy bun, face streaked with paint.
She was chaos in his order. And somehow, both beautiful and infuriating.
One evening, he leaned against the doorframe, watching her hum as she pressed a small sunflower into a jar. "You do realise," he said dryly, "that this was once a study. Not an enchanted meadow."
Without looking up, she grinned. "You say that like it's a bad thing. I'm just making your gloomy lair a little less psychotic."
He raised an eyebrow. "psychotic?"
"You know what I mean," she said, waving her brush dismissively. "All those files, all those secrets… even the walls look like they could whisper back."
Alden smirked faintly but didn't answer.
She turned her head slightly, noticing the way he carefully keyed in the code to his safe, his fingers moving in a rhythm she'd memorised halfway. Four to the left, one to the right, pause, then two quick turns.
But then came the part that always made her pulse quicken — the sound of his thumb pressing against the biometric pad, a soft click, and the heavy door swinging open. He would always place a set of folders inside, never lingering longer than needed. Then he'd close it, locking it with a precision that told her whatever he was hiding wasn't just medical.
Mira watched each time quietly, pretending to mix her paints, her curiosity swelling like an itch she couldn't scratch.
There was one diary — small, bound in green leather — that she'd never seen him open. It sat on the highest shelf, gathering dust. Every time her eyes met it, something inside her tugged. That one means something.
But for now, she kept her curiosity buried beneath colour and canvas.
Days bled into one another until the morning arrived when she finally stepped back from her easel, hands trembling slightly, heart fluttering in anticipation.
Her masterpiece was finished.
It was a breathtaking depiction — sunlight draping through a canopy of spring blossoms, the two of them beneath it. She had painted herself sitting cross-legged, eyes soft, a quiet smile curving her lips. Beside her, Alden rested his head on her lap, his expression peaceful, eyes half-closed in warmth. She'd painted each detail with devotion — the light grazing his cheek, the faint smile at the corner of his lips, the serenity that only existed in art, never in life.
She stood there, staring at it. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. It was more than just paint; it was her yearning made visible — for peace, for safety, for a love untouched by fear or secrets.
When Alden came in that evening, she turned toward him, a proud grin spreading across her face.
"Don't move," she said quickly. "Close your eyes."
He frowned, half amused. "Should I be worried?"
"Yes," she teased. "But in a good way."
He sighed dramatically but complied, setting his things down and standing still.
"Okay. Now open."
Alden opened his eyes. And for a moment, he said nothing.
His gaze lingered on the painting — the way she had captured him, the peace he never knew he craved. The brushstrokes were soft but deliberate, every shade of light tender and intimate. His throat tightened.
"Mira…" he murmured, stepping closer. "It's…"
She tilted her head expectantly. "Awful?"
He shook his head slowly. "No. It's beautiful. Too beautiful, maybe."
"Too beautiful?" she repeated with a small laugh.
He exhaled. "Because it feels like something we could lose."
Her smile faltered, just slightly. "Lose? Alden, it's just a painting."
"Nothing with you is just anything," he said quietly, still staring at it. "You paint the way you feel — and lately, I can't tell if you're holding on… or saying goodbye."
She blinked at him, the words hitting deeper than she expected. "You think I'd ever want to say goodbye to you?"
He smiled faintly but didn't answer. Instead, he brushed a thumb across her cheek, smudging a streak of yellow paint there. "You've turned my study into a shrine, you know that?"
She chuckled softly. "Maybe it needed a little soul."
He leaned in, voice low — part teasing, part warning. "Or maybe it needed fewer secrets."
Their eyes met, a fragile silence hanging between them. The laughter from moments ago now felt thin, stretched over something heavier.
She looked away first. "I'll hang it on the wall tomorrow," she whispered, her voice smaller now.
"Alright," he said softly, stepping back. "Just… don't stay up too late tonight."
When he left the room, the air felt colder somehow. Mira sat down in front of the painting again, hugging her knees. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the glossy finish of the canvas.
The woman in the painting looked peaceful. Happy.
But the real Mira could feel her heartbeat racing — loud and restless.
She whispered to herself,
"Then why does it feel like he's the one saying goodbye?"
Outside, the night wind rattled the windows — and in the corner of the safe, the Green diary sat in silence, waiting.