Silence.

The only sound was the gentle scratch of pen on paper. The room was dim, lit only by a flickering oil lamp casting its feeble glow over the two young people.

"Are you finished soon?" she sighed, impatience curling in her voice.

"Not quite yet, love," he murmured, eyes still fixed on his drawing.

"Stan?"

No reply.

"Stan, you should really hurry up. I have other things to do."

"Oh, Jesus what’s happened to you? You used to love when I drew you."

"I know I did," she said quietly. "Because I thought it was me that you loved."

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

"I do, sweetheart. What’s wrong?" He finally looked up from his artwork, concern softening his features.

"I thought you liked to draw me because you loved me," she repeated, voice shaking.

"Are you alright? Should I call for a doctor?" He stood, approaching gently.

"NO. GET OFF ME!" she cried, shoving him away. She stormed into the next room.

"Kate, you need to calm down, what’s gotten into your mi-"

His voice halted as he heard it:

Crack.

The sound of tile breaking.

"No, don’t open that, it’s private! KATE, STOP!"

But it was too late.

She had broken loose the tile under their bed, revealing the hidden box he thought no one would ever find. She opened it with trembling hands.

Inside: drawings. Dozens of them.

But none of her.

Drawings of other women. Each one marked with recent dates.

Silence swelled in the space between them.

"I thought... I thought I was your muse," she whispered. "You always said I was..."

Tears streamed freely now.

"Kate I... you are. I can explain-"

"I thought I was the only one," she choked. "How many women have you called your muse? Your lover? Is that why you don’t want to get married?"

"Kate, no. Of course not."

"Dozens of girls... the same sweet words. The same long speeches about love that lasts forever. I was never anything special, was I?"

He opened his mouth.

But nothing came out.

Because maybe-

Not every artist loves his muse.

He just loves the image of her he can trap on paper.