Page 103 of The Lies We Play

Yeah.

Fine.

I know that handwriting.

I know it in the stupid, intimate way you know the shape of a lover’s sleep. In the way you know how a man exhales when he is pretending not to be hurt. In the way you know which mug he chooses when he is angry, because he doesn't believe in slamming cabinets but somehow does believe in selecting ceramics with emotional violence.

The H leans too far forward. The W is impatient, all angles. The final E trails into nothing because Halston always ran out of tolerance for his own name before the ink finished obeying him.

I used to tease him about it.

“You sign like you’re trying to escape before the paperwork notices,” I told him once.

He looked up from the document, eyes tired, mouth almost smiling.

Creed, sprawled on our couch with one arm over his face, said, “Sign faster. Some of us are aging.”

“You were born emotionally ninety,” Halston said.

“I’m mature.”

“You think black coffee is a personality.”

“It’s a lifestyle,” Creed said.

I laughed, and Halston looked at me like he loved the sound enough to forgive the world for requiring paperwork.

That memory hurts so quickly, I have to put the folder down.

Bella twitches once.

Not dramatically. She has saved drama for later, apparently. Tonight, she is a single pulse through my left hand, a reminder that my body has entered the room and would like to be included in the meeting minutes.

“Not now,” I tell her.

She twitches again.

“Bella, respectfully, read the room.”

The room doesn't help.

The studio is mine in the way any borrowed place becomes yours if enough of your life has happened inside it. My lamp. My tools. My clean clothes folded in the drawer. My cracked red mug near the sink. My emergency chocolate hidden behind a stack of archival envelopes because I am a professional woman with systems.

The portrait of the woman with the dog waits on the easel, half-cleaned, her face emerging from yellowed varnish with the quiet satisfaction of someone who always knew people would underestimate her. The dog, frankly, looks smug too.

I envy both of them.

“Don’t start,” I tell the portrait. “I’m aware of my choices.”

She continues being silent and correct. I have always preferred portraits to people in this exact respect.

I look back at the signature.

Halston is alive.

Alive, yes.

But being alive is not the same as reachable. Alive is not the same as mine. Alive can be cruel if no one gives you a map to the person who survived.