PROLOG — THE BODY
I didn't recognize her at first.
Not beneath the sterile morgue lights.
Not with the stillness that didn't belong to her.
The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and something colder metallic, clinical, final. Machines hummed softly in the background, indifferent to grief.
They said I should take my time.
I didn't have time.
Because three months ago, she was laughing in our kitchen sunlight caught in her hair, flour on her hands
and now she was a body tagged with a number.
My fingers trembled as I reached for the sheet.
The white fabric looked too clean. Too gentle for what lay beneath it.
I stopped just before touching it.
I already knew.
Not how she died.
Not where she had been.
But who had been the last person to see her.
His name pressed against my ribs like a bruise.
Lucien Hayes.
I never said it out loud.
I didn't need to.
Everyone already looked at him that way.
And three months earlier, I would have said they were wrong.
Hi, little painters
I have been writing for as long as I can remember. Stories lived in my head long before I ever dared to put them into words. But I never imagined sharing them. I never believed anyone would read them.
Maybe this story will disappear into the quiet corners of my account, gathering dust where no one ever finds it.
Or maybe... this time, someone will stay.
Maybe someone will see it.
Maybe someone will feel it.
But the truth is, this was never about numbers, or popularity, or being seen. It has always been about the feeling the quiet joy of creating something that once only existed inside my mind.
Since childhood, I have built entire worlds in my imagination.
I played the scenes. I spoke the dialogue. I lived inside stories.
Dreaming of writing films, books... even becoming an actress one day.
I just never found the courage to step into the light.
So for now, I write from behind a name that isn't truly mine. Maybe one day, if these stories find their way into the world, I will share my real name too.
But until then, I will stay here hidden in plain sight.
And maybe you will meet me through these pages,
before you ever meet me in real life.
I don't feel like a "writer."
Not in the way the word sounds so certain and defined.
Because I believe everyone carries stories inside them.
Even if they never write them down, they tell them in their imagination.
The hardest part is not dreaming.
The hardest part is letting those dreams step into the world.
So if you are here...
welcome.
Paint what you feel, not what you see.
L.✧
