Paint and life.

Her laugh broke the silence, as she studied the pieces he painted. The late nights and work he put his paintings.

"That is nothing like her, it looks like... me." Elliott gulped.

She looked into his eyes, carefully examining the shine they reflected.

"It is me, isn't it?" All he could do was stand, and listen to her voice. If strawberries had a sound, then her voice would be sweet as they tasted.

He nodded his head, yet unable to look at her. Anastasha smiled, her fingers reached for his hands, carefully tracing small patterns on that the paint left.

"I can't. Not now, Elliott."