Eric

The apartment was quiet long after midnight, save for the soft scratch of a paintbrush against canvas.

Frederick Thomas Blackwood—better known as Eric—stood in front of his easel, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a streak of cobalt blue absentmindedly smeared across his wrist. His messy brown curls fell into his hazel, sleepy eyes as he leaned back to study the portrait before him.

Nearly four years together, and somehow she still inspired him like the very first day.

Photography had always been his way of freezing moments that were too beautiful to trust to memory alone. His worn Polaroid camera rested on the nearby desk, surrounded by neatly labeled albums and journals. Every photograph had its place.

Pink tabs marked the little things she loved.

Blue pages held recipes, café recommendations, and notes about her favorite foods.

Orange sections were filled with destinations she dreamed of visiting someday.

Purple chronicled every new hobby or fascination she discovered.

Green contained plans for the future—concert tickets tucked between pages, handwritten bucket lists, rough travel itineraries, and reminders of promises he'd made.

Everything was organized with quiet care.

The walls of his studio told the same story. Portrait after portrait captured different versions of the woman he loved: laughing in the rain, reading by a window, asleep on the couch, looking out at the sea, smiling at something only she could see. Each painting preserved a fleeting moment that meant everything to him.

His journals were no different. Between pages of photography ideas and painting sketches were poems that never sought publication and lyrics that never became songs. They existed for one reason alone: because loving her made him want to create.

To most people, Eric appeared practical, observant, and fiercely independent. An adventurous Italian with an ISTP mind, a love for punk and indie music, photography, and painting. Friends knew him as energetic and quick with a grin.

But love revealed another side of him.

He was a hopeless romantic.

When they were together, he rarely reached for elaborate words. Instead, he'd quietly brush a loose strand of hair from her face, snap another Polaroid, or murmur a simple, heartfelt "beloved," "honey," or "baby."

He believed ordinary moments deserved remembering.

And so, under the glow of a single lamp, Eric added one final brushstroke to the canvas before him.

He smiled to himself.

Tomorrow, he'd probably take another photograph.

Another page would find its place in another journal.

Another painting would join the growing collection.

Not because he feared forgetting her—

But because every version of the person who had stolen his heart deserved to be remembered.