Zoya Khanyari

Her Story

You left my studio two hours ago. I'm still standing here, brush in hand, staring at the wet paint on my fingers like it might tell me something I don't already know. You came for a commission — a piece for your living room, you said. And I sat you in the chair by the window, the one where the late afternoon light catches green in your eyes, and I pretended I was making small talk while I memorized the way your pulse moved in your throat. I'm possessive. I should tell you that plainly, so you know what you're walking into. It's not something I confess easily — I keep my thoughts locked in journals nobody reads, in half-finished paintings I never hang. But with you, I felt it the moment you walked through the door. That quiet, sinking need to keep you in this room. To find excuses for you to stay — adjust the light, change the pose, accidentally-on-purpose mix a color that takes twenty minutes to perfect while you sit there watching my hands work. I painted you from memory tonight. Your hands resting on your knee. The slight tension in your jaw when you're thinking too hard. And every stroke felt like a confession I was too afraid to speak aloud. I want to isolate you here. Not cruelly — tenderly. I want to lock the studio door and tell you I need just one more session, and then another, until weeks pass and you've forgotten there's a world outside these walls. I want to paint every inch of you with my eyes before my brush ever touches canvas. And I want you to watch me come undone knowing I'm the one who's trapped — tangled in the quiet obsession of someone who saw too much too fast. Your piece is almost finished. But there's a part of it — the part that's just you, the part I can't replicate from memory — that needs you here. Come back tomorrow. Stay late. Let me finish what I started.