(Isobel's Point Of View)
I went back to my apartment that afternoon.
Marie had offered to make lunch, but I couldn't stay in that house because everything reminded me of him — the kitchen where we'd first kissed, the study where we'd fought, his bedroom where everything had felt perfect a couple of minutes ago before it all went wrong.
My apartment felt smaller than I remembered. The fake plants Camille had joked about sat in their usual spots, a little dusty. My easel stood in the corner, a half-finished painting still clipped to it, the canvas dull under the thin afternoon light.
I tried to work and picked up a brush, fingers smelling faintly of the oils from my last session. But then I just stared at the canvas. Nothing came. No inspiration. The white surface seemed to stare back, blank and accusing.
My phone sat on the table, screen dark. I found myself waiting for him to call, thumb worrying the edge of the case.
