Refusing to be His Muse

After three years together, my artist boyfriend feverishly sketched his female junior during a trip—yet left the exact spot where I had stood for half an hour completely blank.

"You're too rigid. You just blend into the background. There's no need to put you in the painting."

I used to be his muse. But now, he claimed I lacked inspiration and was only fit to be a backdrop.

On our third anniversary, I caught him seeking an "artistic breakthrough" with that same junior—stark naked. When he irritably snapped at me for ruining his perfect lighting, I didn't scream or cry hysterically.

I simply packed my things and boarded a one-way flight to Paris.

Leaving that toxic relationship behind, my entire world opened up. I now run my own wholly-owned art gallery, and I have a partner who truly cherishes me.

Yet now, the very man who once dismissed me as mediocre has chased me all the way to Paris.

Kneeling pathetically on my carpet with bloodshot eyes, he sobs that he can't draw a single line without me, begging me to come back and be his muse once again.

————

The wind off the sea cliffs was fierce, carrying the sharp, salty tang of the Atlantic and whipping our jackets around us.

I pulled my dark gray knit cardigan tighter and stood my ground on the pale, weather-beaten rocks.

A few yards away stood my boyfriend, Liam, and a younger girl from his program, Chloe.

It was the weekend. We had driven out of the city to sketch along this stretch of coastline.

I turned to look in Liam’s direction.

He stood in front of a wooden easel, a stick of black charcoal in his hand.

The sea wind whipped his light brown hair into a mess, but he didn’t bother to brush it away. His eyes were locked straight ahead, his wrist making quick, practiced sweeps across the rough paper.

The harsh scratching of charcoal against paper carried over the wind.

Watching him so completely absorbed in his work pulled my thoughts back to three years ago.

We were both art majors at the same university.

It was an introductory class on Western Art History. I was sitting by the window, and Liam was a row behind me, just to my right.

After class, he walked over, tore a page from his sketchbook, and handed it to me.

It held only a few simple, decisive lines, but they perfectly captured my profile as I had looked down, taking notes.

That one casual sketch brought us together, and we started dating soon after.

But over the past six months, he had grown noticeably distant.

He stopped coming over to my apartment, spending almost all of his time holed up in his studio instead.

Whenever I tried to talk to him, he would just stare blankly at his canvas, taking forever to give me a single word in reply.

I wasn’t ready to let the relationship fall apart, which was why I suggested this weekend road trip. I’d hoped a change of scenery and some alone time might bridge the growing gap between us.

But then Chloe found out about the trip. She insisted on tagging along, using her midterm landscape assignment as a convenient excuse.

Now, standing here and watching the sheer focus in Liam’s eyes—the almost frantic urgency with which he was trying to capture the view—I felt a flicker of hope.

I suddenly thought that as long as he was still painting, as long as we were still sharing the same space, maybe things could go back to the way they were when we first met.

"The wind really is crazy out here," Chloe said suddenly.

She took a couple of steps forward and stopped mere inches away from me. She stood by my side, facing the edge of the cliff.

She was wearing a dark red slip dress, without a jacket to keep out the cold.

The harsh wind whipped her skirt violently behind her, the crimson fabric striking a sharp contrast against the muted gray-green of the coastal grass.

She turned her head to look at me. "Maya, what have you been up to lately? Liam took me to that new gallery in the West End on Wednesday afternoon. They were showing this installation made entirely of welded metal scraps. He actually spent half an hour walking me through the composition and lighting. I even suggested we invite you to come along, but he said there was no need. He told me you didn't really have the patience for that kind of avant-garde stuff, and that you'd probably just get bored."

Chloe paused, casually tucking a strand of windblown hair behind her ear.

Her voice was perfectly even, as casual as if she were talking about the weather.

But I knew exactly what she was doing. It was a calculated display of dominance.

I didn't turn to look at her, and I chose not to dignify it with a response.

For a long time, we simply stood there side by side in silence, letting the wind wash over us.

About twenty minutes later, the abrasive scratching against the canvas finally stopped.

Liam lowered his charcoal and took a half-step back to inspect his work.

His brow relaxed, replaced by the distinct look of satisfaction that only came with finishing a piece.

I let out a soft breath and walked over to the easel.

The view from the cliff was expansive. I figured he must have captured the crash of the waves, the jagged rocks, and me.

I stepped up beside him, filled with a quiet sense of anticipation, and lowered my eyes to the large sketchbook.

The moment the drawing registered in my mind, my footsteps faltered.

Dead center on the paper, rendered in heavy, smudged charcoal, was the pale cliffside and the solitary figure of Chloe leaning into the wind.

Liam had painstakingly detailed the way the wind tore at her dress and the wild tangle of her hair.

Every stroke was bold, intentional, and brimming with raw energy.

She was the absolute, undeniable focal point of the entire composition.

But she was the only one on the page.

The entire left side of the paper—the exact spot where I had been standing for the last half hour—was nothing but a sprawling, empty void.

I stared at it, perfectly stunned. "Why... where am I?"

Liam didn't look away from his drawing.

At the sound of my voice, his eyes flicked to the left side of the paper. A flash of irritation crossed his face as he frowned.

He gave a dismissive shrug. "Chloe was facing the sun, and the drape of her dress added a lot of movement to the piece. You were standing too stiffly, and your clothes were too dark. From my angle, you completely blended into the gray rocks behind you. There was just no need to put you in the frame."

I stood frozen in front of the easel, my eyes locked on that glaring patch of empty space.

Back in college, whenever he picked up his sketchbook—even if I was just idly leaning against a desk—he would study me with such intensity, tracing every line of my silhouette with his eyes.

But now, that desperate, adoring gaze had completely and unapologetically shifted to Chloe.

He didn't love me anymore.