UNENDING

29- The Painting

-ASIYA-

Wandering through the house, I felt like a ghost, aimlessly floating from one room to the next. The vastness of it all only emphasized how small and insignificant I felt, like a drop of water lost in an endless ocean. I needed something—anything—to occupy my mind, to keep it from drifting back to the dark thoughts that threatened to consume me.

I paused in the hallway on the second floor, my eyes landing on a door I had passed by countless times. It was nothing special, just another door in a house full of them, but today, something was nagging at me to take a look inside. I had seen Al-Qasim go in a few times, always closing the door behind him, but I had never been curious enough to follow. Today was different. Maybe it was the boredom, or maybe it was something deeper that I couldn't quite put into words. Either way, I found myself turning the doorknob and stepping inside.

The room was larger than I had expected, with high ceilings and walls lined with windows that let in the soft afternoon light. But what caught my attention were the canvases—dozens of them—scattered around the room. Some were propped up on easels, others leaned against the walls, and a few were stacked in neat piles on the floor. The smell of paint and turpentine hung in the air, and the sight of all the brushes, paints, and other supplies made it clear that this was Al-Qasim's art studio.

I had known he was talented, but seeing the sheer volume of his work was overwhelming. I moved slowly through the room, taking in each piece as I went. His style was varied—some paintings were abstract, with bold strokes of color that seemed to pulse with emotion, while others were more realistic, capturing landscapes, city scenes, and still lifes with incredible detail. I couldn't help but admire the skill it took to create such diverse pieces, each one a reflection of a different aspect of his inner world.

But as I continued to explore, I noticed something else. There were a few unfinished paintings scattered among the finished ones, each one frozen in time, waiting for him to return and complete them. I lingered in front of one, a haunting image of a dark forest with a single path winding through it. The path was incomplete, fading into the blank canvas as if it had yet to be decided which way it would go. I wondered what had stopped him from finishing it, what thoughts or feelings had made him put down his brush and walk away.

Eventually, my eyes were drawn to the easel in the center of the room. There was a canvas on it, covered by a cloth. Something inside me told me that this was the reason I had come into the room today, that this was what I had been meant to find. I hesitated for a moment, then reached out and gently lifted the cloth away.

I gasped. It was me.

The painting was an exact likeness, so detailed that it felt like I was looking into a mirror. Every feature, every strand of hair, every curve of my face had been captured with an almost painful accuracy. But it was the eyes that held me captive. They were filled with something I couldn't quite describe—pain, yes, but also something deeper, something raw and unspoken. The longer I stared at them, the more I felt like I was being pulled into a place I didn't want to go.

I stood there, frozen, unable to look away. Was this how Al-Qasim saw me? Was this what he thought every time he looked at me? The thought made me feel uneasy, like a weight had settled on my chest. I didn't want him to see me like this. I didn't want to be a source of pain for him, a reminder of everything that had gone wrong. I had always tried to keep my emotions hidden, to protect him from the darkness that lived inside me, but now it felt like he had seen right through me, like he had captured the very essence of my soul on that canvas.

I took a step back, my heart racing. I couldn't stay in that room any longer. I needed to get out, to put some distance between myself and that painting, between myself and the version of me that it portrayed. I quickly left the room, closing the door behind me with trembling hands.