I didn’t scream.
I didn’t cry.

I just stopped breathing the same way.

This isn’t about her.
This is what happens when silence moves in and doesn’t leave.
When night stops being something outside the window and starts pressing against the inside of your chest.

Not sadness.
Something older. Heavier. Hungrier.
The moment the animal takes over.

Everyone has a night they carry inside.
You don’t talk about this night.
You carry it.
You feed it.
You make love with it in secret.

I didn’t paint memory.
I painted what it felt like to wake up the next day.

I tried to remember her, but memory blurred her into this.
A wreck of beauty, an ache that refused to resolve.

When I close my eyes, I can’t see her clearly anymore.
The harder I looked, the more it broke apart. Like a body dissolving into shadow.

She was still there, but already fading.
Her curves breaking into fragments, her light smothered under darkness.

This is what remains. Not her body, but the grief of it.
The ruin of her.

A ruin I keep because it’s all I have left.
A beauty too intense to survive memory.

She tried. God, she tried.

She scrubbed her skin until it burned, changed the sheets, drowned in strangers, and still his shadow clung like smoke.
Nights bled into mornings in bathrooms like this.
Red, raw, merciless. Where she bent over the sink, begging her reflection to obey.

She wrote it down like a spell. Over and over.
As if letters could erase time.
As if a command scrawled in lipstick could unhook the body from its ghosts.

But memory doesn’t leave when you tell it to.
It hides in bone.
It floods the mirror until you can’t tell where your face ends and his begins.

This is not romance. This is obsession.
A body haunting itself.
This is her fighting the war no one else sees, the one between what she knows and what she feels.

And she will lose.
Every time.

 
Her reflection

She couldn’t let it go. Every song, every smell, every silence still trembled with the ghost of it.
So she turned her bathroom into a chapel, her mirror into scripture.
Every morning: Don’t forget.
Every night: Don’t forget.
As if remembering was safer than moving on. As if obsession was better than emptiness. The way forgetting feels like betrayal.
When I found the scene, the room still smelled of her perfume, the record was still spinning, and her reflection had burned itself into the glass.

 
My obsession

I painted this because I couldn’t stop watching her.
Not when she walked. Not when she laughed. Especially not when she stood in front of the mirror, half-lit, etching herself into me like fire on paper.
Her body was ritual. Every curve, every angle, a language that needed no words.
Her back, her hips, the way her skin caught the light, it was opium.
Not just desire, but addiction.
She wasn’t asking to be seen. She simply existed, and the world bent around her.
I painted this because I refuse to forget.
Because beauty like that doesn’t fade quietly, it brands you.
Her reflection burned into me, and I knew: even if I lost her, even if time erased everything else, this moment had to survive.
That’s what this canvas is. Not memory. Not portrait.
Obsession, preserved in oil.
 

I didn’t lose her all at once.
I watched her vanish slowly. Eye first, voice second, soul last.

She didn’t leave. She disappeared.

This canvas is what I couldn’t stop.
The collapse of us in my memory, the way our warmth curdled into ache.

We could have been something.
Something holy. Something dangerous. Something worth surviving.

Instead, we ended in black.
 
This is what remained of us.
Not the joy, not the promise, only the weight of what we could have been.

This is not her, not me. It is the residue, the scar, the ruin of us.
Black where the future could have unfolded. Black where the silence grew too loud.

Even beauty, once gone, leaves a mess behind.

This canvas is the aftermath.
This canvas is the going back to black.

The weight of two people who couldn’t let go.
Even when we were already dissolving.

Every brushstroke carries what we couldn’t say.
The ache, the fire, the collapse that still felt like an embrace.

Two bodies blurred into one, black and white, shadow and flesh.
Fused in a way that was beautiful only because it was doomed.

It’s the moment before the night begins

When the city slows down, the sky turns gold, and the terrace fills with smoke and laughter.
The best faces are gathered, the best table is ours.

You can feel the promise of what’s coming, the wildness, the seduction, the secrets…
But for now it’s just wine, cigarettes, beauty, and the soft burn of the evening.

The terrace is alive, the air is warm, the glasses shine, and beauty sits at every seat.
Nothing has started yet but everyone feels it coming.

This is the calm before desire.
The hour where elegance still holds the leash and the night waits to be unleashed.

It wasn’t about the pasta, or even the wine.

It was the ritual.
The way a night could turn into a memory just because it was ours.

Cooking, laughing, eating too late, drinking too much, repeating it again and again until it became the rhythm of love itself.

This painting is that memory, captured forever: two people at a table, and everything that matters between them.

Some loves aren’t loud.
They’re not about trips or fireworks.
They live in smaller things: a plate of pasta, two glasses of wine, a join smoke curling into the ceiling.

This painting is a testimony to the quiet, repeated moments that mean everything.
How the nights seemed endless, how her laughter filled the room, how simple it all was.

We thought we had infinite dinners ahead of us.

When touch turned into language.

Two bodies so lost in each other, they dissolve, blur, burn.
You can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

You know what we were.
You know how impossible it was to keep my hands from you, how even silence between us burned.

It wasn’t just your body.
Though your body was the spell.

It was the way we dissolved.
The way we stopped being two people and became something else, something nameless.

We could summon it at will. The quake, the surrender, the trembling that felt less like desire and more like revelation.

No one will ever know what it was like to be inside that fire but us.
No one will ever understand how it felt when time bent, when pleasure obeyed us, when our bodies refused separation.
 
It’s about the collapse of borders, the sacred delirium of becoming one.

We fall apart in color, in weight, in the mess of everything that was once beautiful.

This is not a portrait of passion itself.
It is the beauty of collapse, the elegance of something that was too alive to survive intact.

This is the mark that passion left on me, blurred, burned, bled out but still pulsing.

Look close and you’ll see it. Not her, not me, but the ghost of us, still alive in the wreckage.

Passion never leaves quietly.
It rips through, it burns, and when the flame finally collapses, it leaves stains that won’t wash out.

Two figures tangled until they dissolved.

It was worship.

We didn’t meet as flesh, we dissolved, blurred, burned, until we were nothing but whole.

The way her divinity made me infinite, and how, together, we became something greater than human.
For a moment I was a god, and she was holy. The world outside ceased to exist.

This painting is that moment. A trace of heaven left on canvas.

We were the sky unraveling, a storm half-formed.
The calm and the chaos, the tenderness and the violence in the same breath.

Transcendence, the moment when flesh stops being flesh and becomes light.
This is what happened when we dissolved into one being.

It is what remains when love and lust collide so completely that they break the ceiling of the human and open a door to the infinite.

The aftermath of being consumed.

Some addictions come in bottles, others in powders. Mine was her.

We were never afraid of distance.

Even when oceans opened between us, even when silence stretched for weeks, the thread never broke.

Every reunion carried the weight of absence, like falling in love for the first time, again and again.

It’s the storm and the calm, the exile and the return, the darkness that tested us, the light that saved us.

We lived in fragments, airports, trains, hotel rooms, long stretches of silence broken by the violence of reunion.

Every kiss carried the weight of months, every embrace carried the echo of loss.

We loved like fugitives, like believers, like fire returning to its flame.

Every time we touched again, it was the world remade.

Eternity rehearsing itself.

A sanctuary she could trust, a storm she could crave.

Resting, unmoving, like a statue carved to test my essence.

Like a secret only I was allowed to read.

I memorized it until desire became devotion.

Even breathing became unbearable.

This was the first real painting I ever made.

Before this, I had only touched acrylics a handful of times.
Then I picked up oil for the first time, and what happened on this canvas shocked me.
I didn’t know I could paint like this. I didn’t know I had it in me.

It started from a photograph I found, an image that already spoke a thousand words.
I tried to follow it faithfully, to capture exactly what I saw, and what came out was something alive.
Something more than I expected.

That’s why I could never sell this one.
It isn’t just a piece of art. It’s the moment I realized I could speak without words.

I discovered a new language.

One made of shadows and light.