Work Text:
Rover stood in her studio, the air thick with the smell of drying oils and acrylics. Her latest canvas stood infront of her, a haunting image half created. The woman in the painting had light blue hair, soft as sea foam, flowing down her back like waves. Her eyes, though unfinished, were fixed on a star in the night sky, a single ray of light that seemed to guide her. It was always the same—her eyes staring upward, distant yet full of something Rover could never quite grasp.
Rover paused, brush hovering over the woman’s face. She never remembered her face.
For months, Rover had been painting this woman. It started as a vague memory, the echo of a time when she had been in love. The woman had been everything to her—a beacon of light in a dark world. But now, years later, all that remained were fragments: the gentle waves of her blue hair, the gaze that always seemed to find the same star, even in daylight. But her face… no matter how hard Rover tried, it remained elusive, blurred like a forgotten dream.
She exhaled, her breath shaking. The memory of her love was slipping, drifting further away with each stroke of her brush. With a frustrated flick of her wrist, she smeared paint across the canvas where the face should be. Then, in a fit of emotion, she grabbed the edge of the canvas and tore it in half, the sound of ripping fabric echoing through the studio.
The same pattern had played out over and over again. Each painting ended this way—torn, incomplete. She would capture everything about the woman except the face, as if her mind refused to let her remember. The blue hair, the star, the night sky—they were always there. But not her face.
Rover threw the torn canvas onto the pile of other ruined paintings. She slumped into a chair, staring at the collection of fragments she had created. They filled the room, pieces of her past scattered around her like a puzzle she could never solve. She ran a hand through her own tangled hair, her fingers trembling.
There had been a time, once, when that woman had stood by her side, whispering words of comfort in the middle of the night, her laughter filling the quiet spaces of their shared life. Rover remembered the sound of her voice, the way she smelled of lavender, and the way her touch had grounded her in the moments she needed it most.
But that was all she could remember now. The years had stolen her face from Rover’s mind, and no matter how many canvases she filled, it wouldn’t come back.
In the corner of the studio, tucked away behind easels and half-finished works, was an old photograph. Rover hadn’t dared to look at it in years. She knew what it was—their last picture together, before everything had fallen apart. The photo was damaged from the lack of care, ripped corners fixed with messily done tape.
Slowly, with a sense of fear, Rover rose from her chair and made her way toward the photograph. She hesitated before picking it up, staring at the back where her old handwriting had scrawled the date.
When she turned it over, her breath caught. There she was—her blue-haired love, smiling at the camera, her eyes crinkled with joy. But even now, even with the photo in front of her, the face seemed to blur, the details slipping away like sand through her fingers. The star in the sky that her lover had always stared at felt clearer than the woman herself.
Rover dropped the photo back into its hiding place. She couldn’t force herself to remember. The face would remain a mystery, a part of her past she would never get back. But the paintings—each one was a contribution to the love that had once been. They were pieces of a story she would continue to tell, even if she could never finish it.
She picked up her brush again and returned to the canvas.
Unnoticed, a blue-like purple butterfly flied into her studio, landing on an untouched black flower.