Rain Over the Easel

In a quiet town by the sea, Brent lived alone in a small house filled with paintings. He was an artist—gentle, quiet, and always lost in colors. People admired his work, but no one really knew Brent. He had a secret that kept him from getting too close to anyone.

One morning, he put a sign outside his studio: Looking for a model. A few people came, but no one felt right. Until one day, she walked in.

“Hi,” she said. “My name is AZ.”

She had short curly hair, brown eyes full of light, and a smile that felt like music.

Brent looked at her and felt something in his chest—like his heart had opened a window.

“You’re perfect,” Brent said softly.

AZ laughed. “For what?”

“For the painting,” he smiled. “Please sit.”

And so she did.

For days, AZ came to his studio. She sat still, told stories, and sometimes sang softly while Brent painted her. Her voice made the air feel lighter. They talked about silly things, serious things, and everything in between.

“Why do you paint?” she asked one afternoon.

Brent didn’t answer right away.

“Because I’m afraid of forgetting,” he said.

“Of forgetting what?”

“Moments,” he said. “People. Love.”

AZ tilted her head. “That’s... sad.”

Brent smiled faintly. “That’s life.”

Time passed, and the painting grew. And so did something between them.

One evening, after the painting was almost done, AZ looked at him and said, “Do you ever paint something just because you want to keep it close forever?”

Brent looked into her eyes.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I do.”

She reached out and touched his hand. “I think I’m falling for you, Brent.”

He froze. His heart raced, but he pulled his hand away.

AZ looked confused. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Brent said quickly. “It’s not you. I just… I need time.”

“Okay,” she said quietly. “But don’t push me away, please.”

“I won’t,” he said. But inside, he was lying.

That night, Brent stood in front of the painting. AZ’s face looked back at him—calm, full of life. He loved her. But he was afraid.

He looked at the calendar.

One month left.

One month until everything would change.

Brent had been sick for a long time. A heart condition. Doctors said it could go on for years… or end without warning. And recently, he’d started feeling the signs—the chest pain, the weakness, the short breath.

He didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t want pity. But now… he had AZ.

The next day, he didn’t open the studio.

AZ knocked and called his name. “Brent? Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer.

The day after, she came again. “Please talk to me.”

He stayed silent.

A week passed. On the eighth day, he finally opened the door. His eyes were tired. He looked smaller, paler.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I needed space.”

AZ hugged him. “Don’t do that again. I was worried.”

Brent nodded. “Come inside.”

They sat together, close but quiet.

“I missed you,” AZ said softly.

“I missed you too.”

Then AZ touched his face and said, “Don’t you ever disappear again. Not unless you’re taking me with you.”

Brent wanted to tell her the truth. But fear kept him quiet.

That night, he had a dream—AZ was dancing under the moonlight, her laughter filling the air. He stood there, just watching her, not moving, afraid she’d disappear. When he woke up, his pillow was wet with tears.

The next day, he finished the painting. It was beautiful—AZ in sunlight, eyes full of wonder. When she saw it, she gasped.

“Is that really how you see me?”

“Yes,” Brent said. “Every time I close my eyes.”

AZ touched the canvas, then his face.

“I love you, Brent,” she said.

He wanted to say it back. He wanted to give her forever. But he only said, “Thank you.”

AZ frowned. “Why do you always hold back?”

Brent looked down. “Because I don’t know how to hold on.”

Later that week, they took a walk on the beach. AZ picked up a shell and held it to Brent’s ear.

“Do you hear it?” she smiled.

“The ocean?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Us. You and me. This moment. Promise me you’ll remember it.”

“I promise,” Brent said.

But the next day, his heart betrayed him.

AZ found him on the studio floor, barely breathing.

She screamed for help. The ambulance came. Brent was rushed to the hospital.

When he opened his eyes, she was there, holding his hand tightly.

“You lied to me,” she whispered through tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said weakly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to scare you. I didn’t want you to waste your love on someone who’s... leaving.”

AZ shook her head. “You idiot. My love is not wasted. Not even for a second.”

He smiled. “I’m scared, AZ.”

She kissed his forehead. “Me too.”

They spent three days in that hospital room. Brent grew weaker. On the fourth night, he gave her a small box.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Open it.”

Inside was a key. She looked at him.

“Go to the studio. Top drawer of my desk. There’s something for you.”

She ran there through the rain, heart pounding. In the drawer, she found the letter. It read:

=====

My AZ,

If you’re reading this, it means I wasn’t strong enough to tell you everything face to face. I loved you from the moment you walked into my life. You made me laugh. You made me dream again. You made me want to live.

I was afraid. Not of dying—but of hurting you.

If I had more time, I’d fill the world with paintings of you. But for now, there’s only one. It’s the best I’ve ever done. Because you are the best thing that ever happened to me.

Don’t cry too long. Live. Laugh. Fall in love again someday. I’ll be watching. I’ll be smiling.

I love you always,

Brent

=====

She dropped to the floor, holding the letter against her heart, sobbing.

That night, Brent’s heart gave out.

The whole town came to the funeral. People cried for the artist. AZ cried for the man she loved.

A week later, she held a small art show called Brent’s Light. His paintings filled the room, and in the center was her portrait—the one he called Forever AZ.

Every person who saw it said the same thing: It feels alive. Like love itself.

AZ never forgot him. She visited his grave every year, whispering, “I still love you.”

And every time she looked at that painting, she felt him near—like a quiet brushstroke on her soul.

Love doesn’t end. Even when life does.