Be safe.

My sister would sign after every long message of how she'll be back home as soon as she could and that she loved me dearly. I loved her and told her everything because she was always so open and positive. At first, she was skeptical of my temporary living arrangements, but with a few (clothed) selfies of me and Ymir, she was relieved it wasn't some old man.

Be safe.

The words were ingrained in my mind as I traced the outline of my phone, feeling the small protrusion of buttons on its side, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness in the loft. Soft, melodious instrumentals lifted into the rafters like an enchanting lullaby. Beyond our divider, Ymir's bed was empty and the only sign of her was the warm glow of the candles in the art-living room. Ever since I moved in, Ymir would spend the better time of the night to reflect and create her masterpieces. She always had a cup of coffee, a glass of wine, and a can of soda, simultaneously, by her side as she sat on the ground with her canvas, refining her daily sketches into something wonderful.

Every night, I would quietly pad over to the railing and sit there, watching her from my perch, and seeing her scratch her back with the end of the paintbrush, gracefully getting paint on the back of her shirt, and how she'd talk to her painting as if it was real.

"You'll be pretty soon enough," her words echoed up as she was languidly tracing the outline of my body onto the canvas, "just be patient a little longer."

She was sweet to the drawings. Very loving.

But she was hard on herself.

"Get the damn line right," she'd curse if she messed up, trying again and having to erase a lot of her progress.

At the end of her sessions, she'd grow distressed, ignoring her pop and coffee, focusing on downing her wine, refilling, and becoming more and more anxious and bitter.

"Why can't I do this?"

"It's just a line."

"It's the shading…"

I never told her I watched her do this. By the time she went to the closet, hidden behind large portraits of naked, handsome men, I'd be nearly dozing off with my cheek pressed against the wooden balusters. Every time, she'd curse and groan, heaving the paintings away until she could pry that creaky door open, revealing tarp-covered pictures. Slowly, she'd dig through them, careful, and almost just as loving as her drawing process she'd pull one out from the dark depths and take it into the light.

She'd remove my image from her easel and replace it with finished portraits of Sasha. Each one had the woman's smile and her naked body in various poses. Most were of her with coffee, bare, and sitting at the table, sleepy with bedhead.

I was so far away from seeing the finer detail, but I couldn't help and feel like it looked lonely.

Maybe it wasn't the painting, though, but Ymir herself.

She'd sit down, tipsy or drunk, I didn't know which, and she'd longingly stare at it for minutes on end, lifting her pencil or paintbrush up as if to correct a mistake, but she'd reluctantly pull her utinsel down, exhaling. She'd bow her head…

And with a reverent hand she'd lift it to the face of Sasha and caress the woman's cheek.

In those long but brief moments, I'd feel an array of emotion that left my head spinning, trying to hold myself from walking down and asking what was wrong, or, worse, walking down and kissing Ymir to remind her I was there. Not that we were lovers or anything!—but the fact remained that I wanted to kiss her.

I'd watch her sit there as if her angry fire was doused and all she could do was quietly cry. If there were tears, I never saw because I'd return to my bed, feeling awful that I witnessed something so private.

Shortly, she'd put away her art piece and hide that closet again. She'd blow out all the candles, leave her opened pop and barely touched coffee to trip over in the morning, and she'd drag herself upstairs to sleep.

Without a skip, she'd always whisper.

"Chacun voit midi à sa porte… Hah… Inutile de discuter."

It was said with such self-contempt as if she was degrading herself. I could barely keep myself from joining her in her bed, desiring to just lay her to sleep with my body, but I didn't have the courage.

After all, I was just her model and she was the painter. Where I was abundant, found in every pretty person she may see, there was only one of her, and I could not compete.

"Be safe." I whispered to her midnight.