My Mr. Artist

Chapter 45

Kiyah

The air was still thick with the remnants of us—our breaths uneven, our skin slick, our hearts unwilling to calm. I lay against his chest, my cheek rising and falling with each heavy beat beneath his ribs. For a while, neither of us spoke. Silence wasn't empty this time—it was whole, filled with everything we had just poured into each other.

When my lashes fluttered open, the blur of passion gave way to clarity—and my world stilled.

This wasn't just any bedroom.

I pushed myself up, the blanket clutched tightly to my chest, my eyes sweeping across the space. Each glance struck like an echo, like a tug at the deepest corners of my memory.

The amber glow of dusk filtered through the curtains, soft and golden, laying a familiar warmth across the room. The walls—painted in tones I knew too well—seemed to breathe with a life I thought I'd left behind. And then the details—oh, the details.

The L-shaped desk Ansh had insisted on placing so we could work side by side, always close enough for our hands to brush. The projector and the cushion wall I had stubbornly built, piece by piece, so our little sanctuary could host its own private movie dates. And there—in the corner—my eyes caught on it and a laugh bubbled out before tears followed.

The giant teddy bear. The one I had forced him to buy, despite his grumbling. The one he had sulked over for weeks because I often chose its plush arms over his when I curled up to sleep. Seeing it now, standing guard in this room, was like being struck by lightning.

It wasn't just familiar. It was ours.  It felt like a memory resurrected, like someone had plucked our old room from M City and set it here, waiting for me to stumble back into it.

A life I thought buried, rebuilt brick by brick, waiting patiently for me to step back into it.

My throat tightened as I whispered, half to myself, half to him, "This is... this is our room."

"Yes," his voice was low, almost reverent, "our room. The room waiting for its owner for more than three years."

Kiyah's eyes stung as she turned to him, words trembling. "Why? Why would you do this to yourself—torture yourself with our memory?" Her voice broke into a whisper, almost as if she wasn't meant to hear it herself. "I would never dare step into our sacred world without you. And true to that... I never even visited your apartment after our break up."

Ansh's lips curved, not quite into a smile—it was too bitter for that. "In this new city, surrounded by familiar faces who still felt like strangers... I couldn't sleep. Every night, I'd lie awake, restless, caged in a home that never felt like mine." His gaze swept across the recreated room, soft with shadows and memory. "So I came here. Brick by brick, wall by wall, I built this room again. And the day it was finished, when I stood here and my eyes caught the familiar setup..." He exhaled slowly, as though releasing years of ache. "That night, I finally found sleep. Disturbed, haunted—but still sleep. This room... it held me, kept me from flying down to you. It tethered me to this world when I was too close to breaking."

He reached for her hand, his thumb brushing her knuckles, tender and certain. His eyes softened, glassy under the dim light. "But now... with you here, in this room again—I think I've finally found my peaceful sleep."

My throat tightened as tears prickled, unbidden. My fingers traced the blanket's edge, gripping it as though it could anchor me. The idea of this home—standing quietly, waiting for me, for us, all these years—was too much.

"You're saying... this was always mine to come back to?" My voice trembled.

He cupped my jaw gently, his thumb brushing my cheek. "Not just yours. Ours. This home was waiting for its owner—for your art, your warmth, your chaos. Only you could fill these walls."