HELENE NEVER HAD BEEN one for a simple love. She had romanticized the all-consuming ones for so long that when the prince took the princess along without even considering her life and feelings, all she could think about was how nice it was to be loved. She hid it well during the years, any hint of how empty she felt. Who was she supposed to talk to about it anyway? After all, she was the one who was always listening, always agreeing. It made her realize how heavy words could become if they stayed lodged in your throat. In a way it was ironic how that realization made her even better at helping, like even her pain was only acceptable when it was useful.

It had been a quiet winter night when she had met Zion for the first time. On her way home she had stopped by a cafe to get coffee, fatigue already pulling her eyes closed at the thought of staying up again for the seventh night in a row. Insomnia was her only friend most days and a loyal one at that, to the point where she had decided to simply embrace it. If she wasn't going to sleep anyway, she might as well be wide awake and productive, she supposed. There was still so much paperwork and chores she had to do after all, never mind the stacks of unread books which she hadn't gotten around to yet.

She sat down with her two cups of coffee at her usual table by the window, the fluorescent yellow lights shining down weakly from the lamps above, a stark contrast to the pitch black night outside, which seemed to even drown out the street lanterns. Her neighbourhood had always been quiet, but that had been exactly why she had chosen it. Even if her thoughts kept her awake, the only way she could stay sane was by listening to them. With a sigh she leaned forward on the table, pressing her fingers against her shut eyelids as she felt her headache worsen. She couldn't remember the last time she had slept more than five hours.

"Is everything okay?"

She immediately lowered her hands, the light bright in her eyes for a moment as she opened them again. In front of her a man had sat down on the crimson couch of the booth, a sudden shame coursing through her at the thought of someone having seen her with her guard down. At the same time that thought brought her even more shame: this man didn't even know her and yet she was still worried about being perceived as weak. Pathetic.

"I'm fine," she said politely," thank you for asking."

"I had to," he said," it's the first time I've ever seen you so troubled, I got worried."

She blinked, staring at him for a moment. Did she know him? His lips were curled up in a smile, eyes the same warm color of brown as his skin. Somehow he reminded her of empty museums, of Renaissance paintings left unfinished, of faded pictures forgotten in an empty house. It was a strange kind of feeling, one she couldn't quite place. Still, he was looking at her like he was seeing her, truly seeing her. If she hadn't known better, she would have almost thought he had, but in the end people only saw the parts you wanted them to see. She was a million different people in a million different minds, to the point where she sometimes forgot who she was in her own.

"I'm a regular here too," he said, answering her unspoken question," you immediately caught my eye when I saw you."

"Why?" she said.

He brushed his dark curls out of his face with a hand. "I don't know, something about you is just so mesmerizing to me."

"Because I'm beautiful?" she said, the word not meaning anything to her.

She knew beauty was an asset, but it had never been one she wanted, not when the only thing she saw in the mirror was her mother. The woman had spent years chasing an ideal she'd never achieve and all it had given her were superficial men who had left their handprints stinging red on her cheeks. So Helene had poured her all into studying, into things she felt like she had control over. Even then, all of her accomplishments were never truly hers. She was a prodigy, they said, so it was no wonder she had accomplished so much. Absentmindedly she grazed over the callouses on her ring finger from writing, her pen pressing harder and harder into her skin as the sun sank away.

"You are," he said," but it's not that. It's just -" He looked at her face like he was studying it for a moment, before speaking again in the silence of the cafe. "You remind me of art."

"I do?" she said, so surprised the words left her lips before she could even think about it.

He tapped his fingers on the table, looking out of the window. "Do you know that feeling when you see all your dreams come true and just feel empty? Like the happiness you thought you'd achieve was somehow lost along the way and now you don't know what your purpose is anymore?"

"I do," she repeated, the words quieter now.

"I've been feeling that way for a while now," he said as he flicked his gaze back at her," my art is selling faster than ever before, I'm opening another exhibition and yet I can't even manage to touch my paint brush now. At least, I couldn't. It feels like I've found a muse now." He smiled at her. "My friends say I can be way too intense, but honestly, isn't that how an artist is supposed to feel? Everything or nothing at once?"

"I wouldn't know," she said," I'm not an artist myself."

"I won't pry too much for now," he said," but if it's possible, can I see you again? I'd love to get to know you more, if you'd want to."

Usually she'd say no, but what did she have to lose? All her days were spent working and losing sleep, so it wasn't like anything could change for the worse. Besides, wasn't this everything she had ever wanted? Everything she had read about?

"Okay," she said.

His face lit up at once as he grabbed a pen out of his pocket, leaning forward as he offered it to her.

"Where should I write?" she frowned confusedly.

"Anywhere you want," he said," I don't mind, as long as it's from you."

She kept her surprise from shining through, instead taking his hand in hers and writing her number down. There was paint splattered on them, just like on the collar of his blouse, she noticed. Gold, black and red - somehow it felt like art in itself. His gaze was trained on her the whole time and when she was finished he softly pressed the place where she had put her number against his lips.

"I'll treasure it, my muse," he said.

That made her smile, her hand flying to her mouth as if in reflex when she realized it was a sincere one. He stood up, tapping his coffee cup against hers as he spoke again.

"Originally I wanted to give you this," he chuckled," but seeing as you have two I'll spare you the sleepless night. Besides, that gives me one more reason to see you again."

"I don't think I'll be spared that sleepless night either way," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

"That's fine," he said," I'm going to be up all night as well, so if you're up collecting dreams anyway, we can always call."

"Aren't you busy with your exhibition?" she asked.

"I'm supposed to be," he said," but I can always make time for my muse." He brushed her hair behind her ear then, the movement so gentle she couldn't help but stare into his stormy eyes. "I'm Zion, by the way."

"Helene," she said.

"Helene," he repeated.

When he left, she still felt somewhat starstruck. It was like his name had sprouted wings in her mind, flying around and disturbing every other thought which came up. Zion. No one had ever said she reminded them of art before. He called her that night and she picked up, somehow spending the whole night talking with him. It was a warm and lovely feeling, like she was breathing summer air in a place where no one knew her name. For a while, she thought she was in love.

And then he started getting obsessed.

She supposed she should have seen the warning signs, but no flag seems red when you're looking at it through pink glasses. So she ignored it, even when he went through her phone, even when he beat up her male clients because he felt like they were in love with her, even when he only started hearing what he wanted to. It was when she walked inside his newest exhibition that she could hear everything she had tried to hide shatter though, the shards cutting open her heart and leaving her to bleed.

Everywhere she looked, she saw herself. The paintings on the walls had zoomed in on parts of her, her fingers fidgeting, her lips parted, the nape of her neck bared. Every part of her skin was covered with a white cloth, which was only transparent from her neck up, but somehow she still felt naked, like she had been dissected and put on display. In the middle of the room he had painted a landscape full of people, with only one completely blacked out, the character reaching out to those around her but no one looking up. In the next one she was angelic and alone, wings covering her face and halo made of barbed wire, hands in the air as she bled roses. A soft sound played from the speakers and she could feel the goosebumps when she recognized herself humming a song from her childhood.

"How beautiful," someone said as they passed her," I wonder who this is about?"

"Don't these paintings feel so eery?" the person beside him said," like even when she's being seen, she's alone."

"It would explain why she's bleeding roses, the way pain and love are so intertwined for her she can't even differentiate between them anymore. The barbed wire, do you think that indicates she just feels like she's playing a good person?"

She turned around then and never came back.

When she got the job offer that day, she accepted.