A Cell

A Cell
The sun is soft this morning. It rests gently on the windowsill, like it’s afraid to wake us up too fast. I sit by the window, watching the light slowly creep across the floor. Everything feels still. Quiet. Safe, for now.

We’ve escaped. I tell myself that every morning. We’re not running anymore. But even in the silence, something inside me still holds its breath.

Leomord comes out of the room, yawning, his hair a mess. I smile. “You look like you fought a pillow and lost.”

He grins. “I did. It kept hitting back.”

I laugh. A real one. It’s been a while.

He walks over and wraps his arms around me from behind. I lean into him, letting the comfort of his warmth settle over me. It feels good to just be held.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says quietly against my hair.

“Uh-oh.”

He chuckles. “No, I mean it. We’ve been through so much. Maybe we should do something__ normal.”

I tilt my head back to look at him. “Like what?”

He shrugs. “Pick up a hobby. People do hobbies, right? When they’re not running from criminal gangs.”

I nod slowly. “That… actually sounds nice.”

“Something peaceful. Something new.”

We spend the afternoon throwing ideas at each other. Cooking? We already do that. Reading? Doesn’t count if I keep falling asleep halfway. Gardening? Maybe. Painting?

He says he’s terrible at it. I say I am too. So we settle on it, because if we’re both bad, we can be bad together.

That evening, we walk to a little shop nearby and buy the cheapest painting supplies we can find—some canvas boards, brushes, and colors that smell a bit too strong. The lady at the counter asks if we’re art students. Leomord just winks and says, “Something like that.”

We carry the supplies home, laughing at how he almost drops the paint thinner.

When we get home, we set everything up in the backyard. The sun is setting now, bathing everything in golden light. I spread out an old bedsheet on the grass and sit cross-legged, holding a brush like it’s some kind of ancient weapon.

Leomord settles beside me, pulling his canvas close. “Okay,” he says seriously. “Let’s paint… peace.”

I stare at my blank canvas. “What does peace look like?”

He pauses. “You.”

I laugh, but he doesn’t.

He’s looking at me like I’m the answer to something he never thought he’d solve.

I turn away, cheeks warm, and start painting before my heart bursts. I don’t know what I’m doing. I just start with colors. Swirls. Shapes. Something that reminds me of sunlight, and forests, and home.

Leomord is focused beside me. Every now and then he frowns like the brush is insulting him. His tongue peeks out at the corner of his mouth, which always happens when he’s concentrating. I don’t say anything. I just keep painting.

We sit like that for a long time. The sky darkens. Crickets start singing. Our fingers are stained with blue and green and yellow. There’s color in our hair, our shirts, even our cheeks.

But I feel lighter than I’ve felt in days.

When we finally put the brushes down, I look at Leomord’s painting.

It’s… a mess.

A beautiful mess.

Blues and grays swirl around a dark figure standing alone in the middle of a storm. But there’s a small patch of gold in the corner—like a distant sun trying to break through.

He glances at my canvas and chuckles. “Yours looks like a garden sneezed on it.”

I nudge his shoulder. “Yours looks like someone cried on paper for two hours.”

He smiles faintly, but then goes quiet. His eyes settle back on his painting, and something in his face changes. That stillness I’ve seen before—the one that says he’s thinking of the past.

I brush some dried paint from my knee. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “I wanted to paint how I feel.”

I look at the storm on his canvas. “Alone?”

He nods. “But hopeful.”

There’s a pause. The wind blows gently around us, stirring the trees.

“I don’t want you to feel alone,” I whisper.

He sighs. “Sometimes I feel like I still live in two worlds. One with you. And one with all the things I’ve done.”

“You’re not that man anymore.”

“But I was. And part of me still is. I can't just switch it off, Ana.”

I hate when he calls me that only when he's being distant.

I stare down at my hands. “So what? Are we always going to live like we’re waiting for the past to find us again?”

He looks at me, caught off guard. “That’s not what I—”

“I want a life, Leomord. A real one. Not just hiding in cottages and pretending we’re normal until someone knocks on the door and ruins everything again.”

His jaw tightens. “You think I don’t want that?”

“I don’t know what you want sometimes. You barely tell me anything anymore.”

He throws the brush down. “Because every time I do, I see the fear in your eyes!”

“And what? That’s enough reason to lie to me?” I snap.

“I’m trying to protect you!”

“I don’t want protection, Leomord. I want honesty. I want you.”

We both go silent.

The cicadas buzz in the background. A dog barks in the distance.

His shoulders drop. “I’m sorry.”

I bite my lip, eyes stinging. “Me too.”

He looks down at our paint-streaked hands. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Neither do I.”

A beat passes.

Then he reaches out and touches my face with the back of his fingers. Gently, like I might break.

“I’m trying, Anastasia. I really am. But some days… it’s hard to believe I deserve this.”

“You do,” I say. “You deserve peace. And love. And a silly life with messy paintings and burnt toast.”

He chuckles softly, his eyes glossy. “Even the toast?”

“Especially the toast.”

We both laugh.

He leans in slowly, and our foreheads touch.

I close my eyes.

His hands cradle my cheeks, still stained with green and blue. “You keep pulling me back, even when I drift away.”

“Because I love you.”

The words come out before I even think. Clear. Soft. Honest.

His breath hitches.

I pull back slightly to see his eyes. “I love you, Leomord.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second. He just stares at me like the earth has shifted beneath him.

Then he whispers, “I’ve loved you since the first time you smiled at me.”

I smile again—because I remember that day. And I remember how scared he looked, like no one had smiled at him in a long, long time.

He kisses me softly, and I feel it in every quiet, aching place inside me.

We sit there until the stars come out.