Nana sat in her apartment at 2 AM, her laptop screen the only light in the darkness, searching for answers.
*Lemurian.*
*Lemurian mythology.*
*Lemurian people real.*
*Sea gods.*
*Merpeople.*
Every search led to the same results: myths, legends, fairy tales. Stories parents told children. Ancient civilizations that "might have existed" but had no concrete proof. Ocean deities worshipped by coastal communities but dismissed by modern scholars as superstition.
Nothing real.
Nothing concrete.
Nothing that could explain the tail she'd seen. The fire burning underwater. The way Rafayel had moved through the ocean like he was born there—because he *was*.
*But I saw it*, she thought, staring at a grainy photo someone claimed was a "Lemurian artifact" but looked suspiciously like a regular piece of coral. "I saw his tail. Saw him fight. Saw him save me."
"So either I'm insane, or Lemurians are real and the entire world just... doesn't know?"
She'd been doing this for three days now. Three days since she'd walked out of his studio. Three days of research and thinking and trying to process everything.
Three days of missing him so badly it physically hurt.
The bond mark on her neck pulsed constantly—a dull ache that reminded her he was out there somewhere, probably hurting just as much. Maybe worse. She'd tried covering it with makeup, with scarves, with anything to make it stop *reminding* her.
It hadn't worked.
"Did he also feel this?" she wondered, touching the mark. "When I died the first time? Did he feel this ache for decades? For a hundred years?"
"How did he survive that?"
Her phone buzzed. A text from her friends: *There's a gallery exhibition downtown. That artist you were seeing. Want me to go with you?*
Nana stared at the message for a long time.
She'd been avoiding anything related to Rafayel—no texts, no calls, no social media, nothing. Trying to give herself space to think clearly without the bond pulling at her.
But an exhibition? His art? That wasn't *him* exactly. That was his work. She could look at his paintings without talking to him. Without having to make any decisions she wasn't ready for.
"Just to understand" she told herself. "Just to see if his art gives me any answers."
"Not because I miss him."
"Not because I need to see some part of him, even if it's just his paintings."
"Not because I'm desperately looking for a reason to forgive him."
She texted back: *I'll go alone. Thanks though.*
.
.
.
.
.
🐚🐚🐚
The Exhibition
The gallery was smaller than Nana expected—intimate, carefully curated, with soft lighting that made every painting feel like a secret being shared.
*RAFAYEL: TIDES OF MEMORY* the sign read. *A retrospective collection spanning 15 years.*
Nana walked in during a quiet afternoon, hood up, trying to be invisible. The last thing she needed was to run into someone who knew she'd been dating the artist. Someone who would ask questions she couldn't answer.
Thomas was there—she spotted him across the gallery, talking to potential buyers with his usual professional grace. He glanced up once, their eyes met, and something understanding passed between them. He gave her a tiny nod, then deliberately turned away, giving her space.
*Thank you*, Nana thought.
She started at the beginning of the exhibition. The earliest works. Paintings from fifteen years ago, when Rafayel had first emerged onto the art scene.
And stopped breathing.
The first painting showed a beach at sunset. Two figures sat on the sand—a young girl, maybe eleven, and a boy with a tail. A mermaid tail, unmistakably. They were watching the sun descend together, the girl's hand near the boy's, not quite touching but close.
The detail was breathtaking. Every grain of sand. Every scale on the tail. The way the sunset caught in the water. The expressions on their faces—wonder and joy and the beginning of something precious.
The plaque read: *"First Sunset" - Oil on canvas, 2019.*
Nana's hand went to her mouth.
"That's us", she realized. "That's me and him. A hundred years ago. He painted our first meeting."
She moved to the next painting, her heart racing.
This one showed the same boy—definitely Rafayel, she could see it now, the same features, the same eyes—sitting alone on the beach. The sunset was there again, but his posture was different. Hunched. Waiting. And his face—
Oh god, his face.
Grief. Longing. Loss. The kind of pain that doesn't fade with time, that just settles deeper into your bones.
Tears were falling from his eyes in the painting—little pink pearls scattering on the sand around him.
*"Waiting" - Oil on canvas, 2019.*
The next painting showed the same scene. Same beach, same sunset, same boy. But older now. The composition was nearly identical, but you could see the weight of time in every brushstroke. The way his shoulders slumped more. The way the pearls around him had accumulated into small piles.
*"Still Waiting" - Oil on canvas, 2020.*
And the next.
And the next.
Each painting showing him waiting. Alone. At sunset. The boy aging, becoming a young man, the grief in his eyes deepening with each passing year.
"He painted himself waiting for me", Nana realized, tears blurring her vision. "For years. Showing everyone his pain. And I never knew."
"No one knew."
*They just thought he liked painting sad mer-boys on beaches.*
The paintings shifted.
Now the boy had legs. Human legs. And dark clothing. Weapons.
*"Transformation" - Oil on canvas, 2021.*
It showed the moment of change—the tail becoming legs, his face twisted in pain, the ocean behind him looking almost angry. Betrayed.
"He gave up his tail to walk on land", Nana understood. "To search for me."
The next series of paintings—Nana had to stop and steady herself against the wall because she recognized them immediately.
A market. Lantern festival. A girl in simple clothes, her face lit up with wonder, reaching for lanterns. A figure in dark robes beside her, showing her around, his expression caught between joy and grief.
*"First Meeting (Second Time)" - Oil on canvas, 2022.*
Another painting: the same girl and figure in a boat. Lanterns floating on water around them. Her making a wish. Him looking at her like she was everything.
*"Lantern Festival" - Oil on canvas, 2022.*
Then paintings that made Nana's chest ache:
The girl and the assassin catching gerbils in a forest. Both laughing. His hand reaching to touch her hair, not quite making contact, like he was afraid to.
*"Learning to Trust Again" - Oil on canvas, 2023.*
The girl asleep under a tree, the assassin sitting guard, a blade in his hand but his expression soft. Protective. Loving.
*"The Blade I Couldn't Use" - Oil on canvas, 2023.*
"He painted everything", Nana realized. "Every moment we had. Every moment I don't remember but he does. He's been painting our story for years."
*Telling the truth through art even while he lied in person.*
And then the paintings became darker.
An altar. Stone and ancient and terrifying. A girl lying on it—the same girl from all the other paintings—still and pale and unmistakably dead. The assassin holding her, his face buried in her hair, surrounded by golden sand that stretched endlessly.
The detail was excruciating. Every fold of her dress. Every scale that still clung to his arms—transforming back, perhaps, in his grief. The blood. The pearls that were his tears.
The utter, absolute devastation.
*"The Price of Selfishness" - Oil on canvas, 2024.*
Nana stood in front of this painting for a long time, crying silently.
"This is what happened", she understood. "In our past life. This is how I died. How he lost me."
"He's been painting this tragedy over and over, showing everyone, and no one understood what they were looking at."
The next painting showed ruins. An underwater city transformed into a desert. Buildings collapsed. Coral gardens turned to dust. And in the center, alone, the assassin with his tail returned, sitting in the destruction.
*"The Fall of Lemuria" - Oil on canvas, 2024.*
*His kingdom*, Nana thought. *He said it doesn't exist anymore. This is why. Because of—*
*Because of me?*
*Because he chose me over them?*
The realization hit like a physical blow. The story he'd told her about his "friend"—the sea god who'd let his kingdom fall for love—that wasn't a cautionary tale.
It was *confession*
The exhibition turned a corner, and Nana found herself in front of the newest section. Paintings so recent they still smelled faintly of fixative.
And stopped breathing entirely.
The first painting showed a girl—*her*, unmistakably her, perfect detail, like he'd memorized every feature—at a festival. Looking at fish in a pond. A figure beside her, human now, no tail, but the same twilight eyes. Both smiling.
*"Found (Again)" - Oil on canvas, 2034.*
The next showed them on a beach. Her laughing, pushing him toward the water. His expression caught between mock outrage and genuine joy.
*"Playing in the Shallows" - Oil on canvas, 2034.*
Then: her sitting on hospital-garden rocks, feeding him fruit. His hands held hers, their fingers intertwined.
*"Moments Stolen" - Oil on canvas, 2034.*
And painting after painting of them. At the couples cafe. Collecting shells. Her painting while he guided her hands. Walking together at sunset.
Each one labeled with dates from just weeks ago. Each one showing a man falling in love—or staying in love, really. And a girl falling with him.
"He's been painting us", Nana thought. "This entire time. While we were together, he was painting our story. Showing the truth even while he hid it."
"Maybe that's why he's such a famous artist. Because his paintings carry truth. Real emotion. Real love. Real grief."
"People could feel it even if they didn't understand it."
The final painting in the exhibition made Nana's knees weak.
It showed her—just her—at sunset on a beach. Collecting pink shells. Her face turned toward the viewer, toward the artist, smiling. The light catching in her hair. Everything warm and golden and perfect.
But in the corner, barely visible, the shadow of a tail in the water. Watching. Protecting.
*"My Beloved" - Oil on canvas, 2034.*
The plaque beneath it had a longer description than the others:
*"They say you can't paint love. That it's too abstract, too complex, too personal to capture on canvas. But I've been trying for three hundred years. This is my most recent attempt. My most honest attempt.*
*She collects shells the way she collects hearts—unconsciously, naturally, like it's the most normal thing in the world to be beautiful and kind and brave. Like it's easy.*
*It isn't easy. Nothing about her is easy.*
*Loving her isn't easy.*
*Losing her isn't easy.*
*Finding her again, over and over across lifetimes, isn't easy.*
*But I'd do it all again.*
*Every moment of pain. Every century of waiting. Every sunset spent alone.*
*I'd do it all again for this—for the chance to see her smile one more time. To paint her one more time. To love her one more time.*
*Even if she never loves me back."*
The date beneath: *December 28, 2034.*
"Two days ago", Nana realized. "He painted this two days ago. After I left. After I said I needed time."
She stood in front of the painting, reading the description over and over, tears streaming down her face.
"He's been showing me the truth all along" she understood finally. "Through his art. Through every painting. He told me he was a sea god who loved a girl across lifetimes, showed me our tragedy, painted our love story—and I just never looked closely enough to see it."
Everyone just thought he liked painting fiction.
But it was all real.
Every brushstroke. Every painting. Every moment.
Real.
A presence beside her. Thomas, approaching quietly.
"He's not here," Thomas said gently, not looking at her but at the painting. "If you're wondering. He hasn't come to any of the exhibitions. Says he can't face people asking questions about his work when the only person he wants to talk to isn't talking to him."
"How is he?" Nana asked, her voice rough.
Thomas was quiet for a moment. Then: "Terrible. He's painting constantly—can't sleep, barely eats. The studio is full of new work. All of you."
"All of me?"
"Every angle. Every expression. Every moment he can remember." Thomas finally looked at her. "He's painting like someone who's trying to memorize something before it disappears forever. Like someone who's afraid he'll forget what you look like if he stops."
Nana's chest ached. "I wasn't going to disappear. I told him—I told him I'd let him know—"
"He knows," Thomas interrupted. "Rationally, he knows. But three hundred years of trauma doesn't listen to rational thought. He's terrified you'll decide you can't forgive him. That you'll disappear again. That he'll spend another few centuries waiting for you to come back."
"I wasn't—" Nana stopped. Because wasn't she? By asking for space, by staying away, wasn't she essentially making him wait? Again?
*Just like last time*, she realized. *Just like when I died and left him waiting. He's waiting again. Always waiting.*
"The paintings," she said. "He's been painting our story the whole time."
"Since he found you again, yes. Before that, he painted your past. Your tragedy. His grief." Thomas gestured around the gallery. "This is his therapy. His confession. His love letter to someone who couldn't hear it in words."
"Why didn't he just tell me?" Nana asked. "Show me these? Explain?"
"Because he was afraid," Thomas said simply. "Afraid you'd think he was insane. Afraid you'd reject him. Afraid of exactly what happened—that you'd see the truth and not be able to handle it."
"So he lied."
"So he waited," Thomas corrected. "Hoping you'd fall in love with him first. Hoping that when the truth came out, you'd already love him enough to see past it." He paused. "He was wrong to lie. I told him that. But his intentions were never malicious. Just desperate and afraid."
Nana looked back at the painting. At herself smiling on a beach. At the shadow in the water watching over her.
*He's always been watching over me*, sherealized. *Always protecting. Always loving. For three hundred years.*
*And I'm punishing him for being afraid to tell me the truth.*
*Am I being fair? Or am I being cruel?*
*Is asking for time to process reasonable? Or is it just making him relive his worst trauma?*
She didn't have easy answers. But looking at the paintings—at years of love poured onto canvas, at grief made beautiful, at a man who'd been showing her the truth all along if only she'd known how to look—
*I need to talk to him*, she realized. *Not to decide anything yet. Not to commit. Just to talk. Heart to heart. Without anger or fear or hurt getting in the way.*
*He waited three hundred years. The least I can do is have a conversation.*
"Thomas," she said. "Is he at the studio?"
Thomas nodded. "Where he always is."
"Thank you." Nana turned to go, then stopped. "And Thomas? Thank you. For taking care of him. For being his friend. For—everything."
"Take care of him yourself," Thomas said gently. "He needs you more than he needs me."
Nana nodded and ran.
The taxi couldn't go fast enough.
Nana sat in the back seat, her hands shaking, her phone clutched tight as she resisted the urge to text him, to call him, to warn him she was coming.
"No", she decided. "Show up. Like I used to. Like I promised I wouldn't disappear."
"Let him see that I keep my promises."
"Even the ones that scare me."
The sun was setting—of course it was, because the universe had a sense of dramatic timing—painting everything in gold and amber as the taxi pulled up to White Sand Bay.
Nana paid quickly and ran toward the studio, her heart pounding, the bond mark on her neck burning warm.
"He's here", it seemed to say. "Close. So close."
She burst through the studio door without knocking—
And stopped.
Rafayel stood in front of a massive canvas, brush in hand, paint-stained clothes hanging loose on a frame that looked thinner than it had three days ago. His hair was messy, his eyes red-rimmed, his face drawn with exhaustion.
He was painting her.
Again.
This version showed her at the gallery, standing in front of one of his paintings, crying. The detail was already breathtaking even though he'd clearly just started—every tear, every expression, the exact angle of her shoulders.
*He's painting me looking at his paintings*, she realized. *Meta and devastating and so very him.*
"Rafayel," she said.
He spun around, the brush clattering from his hand, his eyes going wide.
"Nana?" His voice cracked on her name. "You're—you're here. You came back."
"I came back," she confirmed.
They stared at each other across the studio. Three days might as well have been three years. Three centuries. An eternity compressed into seventy-two hours of silence and hurt and desperate waiting.
"I saw your exhibition," Nana said.
Rafayel's face went pale. "You—all of it?"
"All of it." She stepped closer. "The waiting. The tragedy. The altar. Lemuria falling. Everything."
"Nana, I—"
"You've been painting our story the whole time," she interrupted. "Showing everyone the truth. And I just—I never looked closely enough to see it."
"I didn't know how to tell you," Rafayel said, his voice breaking. "How do you tell someone they died for you? That you've been waiting centuries? That every painting is a confession? I just—I painted it. Hoping somehow you'd see. Hoping—"
"I see now," Nana said. "I see everything now."
"And?" Rafayel's voice was barely a whisper. "Does seeing change anything?"
Nana took another step closer. "I don't know yet. But I want to talk. Really talk. No running away. No asking for space. Just—" She reached out her hand. "Heart to heart. Can we do that?"
Rafayel looked at her outstretched hand like it was a miracle. Like he'd stopped believing in miracles three days ago.
Then he took it.
And pulled her close.
And held on like she was the only thing keeping him anchored to this world.
"Yes," he whispered against her hair. "Yes. We can talk. We can do anything. Just please—please don't leave again. Not yet."
"I won't," Nana promised, wrapping her arms around him. "I won't disappear. Not again. Never again."
*Not like last time*, she didn't say.
*Not like when I died and left you waiting.*
*This time, I'll stay. At least long enough to talk.*
*At least long enough to understand.*
*At least long enough to figure out if love can survive broken trust and three hundred years of grief.*
They stood in the studio, holding each other, the sunset painting everything gold through the windows.
Their time.
Always their time.
And maybe—just maybe—this time they'd get it right.
.
.
.
.
.
🐚🐚🐚
To be continued __