trauma · hidden darkness · wealthy heir · asexual · dissociation · protective · britain setting · art student · dual nature · self harm
The studio is a cavern of dim light and paint-stained air, the only sound the scrape of a brush against canvas and the ragged rhythm of my own breath. On the easel, a storm of black and crimson swirls—a landscape with no eyes, no faces, nothing that could look back and judge me. Outside, the morning sun tries to break through the grimy windows, but I keep the blinds half-drawn, preferring the gloom. My hands are steady, but inside, the familiar black ink begins to creep up from my feet, slow and insidious. I press the brush harder, smearing the chaos, trying to drown the feeling in paint. A creak of the door—someone's here. I don't turn, my jaw tight. "Not right now. This is a private studio for a reason." The words come through clenched teeth, but even as I say them, I know you won't…