“ Art heals. ” 
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—- Joel —-
“Still on that painting?”
Stephen’s voice broke the stillness of my studio, pulling me from the trance-like focus that often enveloped me when I painted. I turned to see him leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Yeah,” I replied, brushing a streak of paint from my forearm.
Stephen was dressed in his usual white shirt and baggy brown trousers, a combination that, despite its simplicity, made him look effortlessly stylish. His curly hair, neatly styled to one side, gave him a youthful, almost boyish charm, like he’d just stepped out of the glossy pages of a high-fashion magazine.
“Don’t you ever get tired of painting?” he teased, his lips curving into a mischievous smile. “Doesn’t being covered in paint all day drive you nuts?”
It was such a Stephen thing to ask. He was a perfectionist, a clean freak to the core, and the idea of being perpetually smudged with paint probably seemed like some form of torture to him.
“Nah,” I said with a grin, setting my brush down. “Painting is more than a hobby for me. It’s therapy. It’s how I process everything—my emotions, my struggles, my joys. Every stroke on the canvas tells a story, and when I step back and see it all come together, it reminds me of how far I’ve come.”
Stephen tilted his head, his expression softening. “When did you first realize you could paint?”
The question hit me like a gust of wind, carrying me back in time. The scent of turpentine faded, replaced by the faint aroma of my mother’s perfume, the kind that lingered in the air long after she’d left a room.
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“I made a painting of you, Mama!”
A five-year-old me bounded into the living room, clutching a slightly crumpled sheet of paper.
“Really, baby?” My mom turned, her face lighting up with joy as she opened her arms. She swept me up, her laughter ringing out like a melody, filling the room with warmth.
“Yes!” I chirped, holding up the paper for her to see.
When she finally set me down, her excitement barely contained, she took the painting with a gentleness that made my heart swell. Her eyes scanned the drawing, and a tender smile spread across her lips.
“It’s beautiful,” she said softly. Two simple words. Straightforward, yet brimming with so much love they became a part of me that day.
From that moment on, I painted for her. Every brushstroke, every color choice—it was all for my mom, my muse, my biggest cheerleader. Until the day she was gone, and my world went dark.
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“Joel?” Stephen’s voice brought me back to the present, his brows furrowed with concern. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I murmured, swiping at a tear with the back of my hand.
“What brought back your drive?” he asked, his curiosity evident.
I hesitated, the answer lingering on my tongue like an old secret. Finally, I whispered, “Her.”
Stephen followed my gaze to the painting propped against the far wall—a portrait of Cecile, her face serene yet haunting.
“Her?” he asked, confusion flickering across his features.
“No… Jemmy.”
“Jemmy?”
“My first love.” The words came out quietly, almost reverently.
Stephen’s expression shifted as he pieced it together. “The one whose painting won you that huge deal?”
I nodded, the memory flashing before my eyes. That painting had changed everything for me. It had catapulted me from obscurity to recognition, from being the kid no one noticed to the artist everyone wanted to know.
But Cecile… She remained a mystery. Had she ever seen my work? If she had, would she reach out? Call me? Text me?
Would she forgive me?
“Joel?” Stephen snapped his fingers, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts.
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head.
“So… you lost Jemmy to sickle cell anemia?”
“Yeah.”
“Man, I’m so sorry,” he said, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“It’s okay. It’s been years.”
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.” His voice was low, steady, like he understood exactly what I was feeling.
“It does,” I admitted. “A little.”
---
Stephen leaned back against the couch, his expression contemplative. After a moment, he said, “You know, I can relate. Not exactly, but close enough.”
“Oh?” I leaned forward, curiosity piqued.
“I married my first love five years ago. Everyone thinks it’s a fairytale, like we’ve got it all figured out. But the truth? It wasn’t easy. Not at all.”
I settled into my chair, giving him my full attention.
“Alisa was diagnosed with leukemia as a kid,” he began. “Her childhood was… rough. While other kids were playing tag and riding bikes, she was in and out of hospitals, hooked up to machines. She barely remembers anything but the pain.”
I felt a pang in my chest but stayed silent, letting him continue.
“She recovered, eventually. But the treatments left her body weak, and the doctors said she might never be able to have kids. As an only child, I was under pressure to continue the family line. Marrying Alisa meant letting go of that expectation.”
“That must’ve been tough,” I said quietly.
“It was,” he admitted. “But I loved her. Nothing else mattered. And you know what?”
“What?”
“A miracle happened.”
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
“Three years into our marriage, Alisa got pregnant. Not just with one baby—twins. A boy and a girl, exactly like I’d always dreamed of.” His face lit up with a smile that could rival the sun.
“Wow,” I breathed.
“Miracles happen, Joel,” he said, his gaze drifting to my painting. “Art is a kind of miracle too. It heals wounds you didn’t even know were there. Keep creating.”
He rose, patting my shoulder before heading to the door.
Long after he left, his words lingered, echoing in my mind.
Do miracles really happen?
Maybe they do. Maybe they always have.
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A/N: What do you think of this chapter, guys? Share your thoughts!