All My Tomorrows Are for You

The rain in L City had just stopped, and the scent of gardenia, mingled with the earthiness of damp soil, floated in the air. Outside the National Gallery, I was captivated by Mr. M's "Water Lilies," my fingertips brushing the faded denim of my worn jeans—my mind swirling with how to depict those flowing lights and shadows in oil paint. Behind me came footsteps as light as feathers; I turned and met a pair of eyes shimmering with starlight. Raindrops clung to the girl's eyelashes, and she wore a white dress, its hem stained with mud. "Sorry, did I frighten you?" Her voice was like a mountain spring, and her fingertips gently traced the water stains on the glass. "No, I was simply too absorbed." I steadied myself and said, "You like Mr. M too?" A faint dimple curved at the corner of her mouth: "Yes, the light and shadows in his paintings seem to carry warmth, as if they could warm the heart." She turned to look at me. "Are you studying painting? I noticed you were holding a paintbrush." "The Royal College of Art, oil painting department. I'm still studying." I gave the paintbrush in my hand a slight shake. "What a coincidence! I'm at the Royal College of Art as well, studying art history." Her eyes brightened as she reached out her hand. "My name is Mia Scott." "Mason Shaw." I grasped her slightly cool hand, and in that moment, even the wind in L City seemed to soften. We were like perfectly matched puzzle pieces, naturally drawn together. Most of the time, I spent in a small studio beside the library—just over ten square meters, cluttered with sketches and paints—where sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting dappled patches of light on the floor. Mia always sat beside me, leafing through art history volumes. When I was absorbed in my painting, she would tap my arm and say, "Mason, soften the light and shadow here—Mr. M never uses harsh lines." I immediately put down my brush to listen to her. While she bowed her head flipping through the book, I hurriedly sketched her profile in my sketchbook—every detail from the stray hairs atop her head, her furrowed brows, to the dimples that appeared when she smiled, unwilling to miss a single one. "Mason Shaw, you're drawing me again!" She always sensed it instantly, leaning in so her nose almost touched the paper. "Let me see it right now!" I hurriedly closed the sketchbook, my ears burning. "The drawing isn't good; I'm afraid you'd laugh." She reached out to snatch it, paint on her fingertips smudging onto my wrist. "No matter how bad it is, it's still a drawing of me." Once, I was sketching sunflowers from life, and Mia lay beside the easel. "Mason, let's buy a house with a garden someday, okay? We'll plant sunflowers all around, and when the sun rises, it will be golden everywhere." "Definitely." I tousled her soft hair. "I will paint sunflowers for you every day, capturing you alongside the flowers." "We will also hold an art exhibition, called 'Mia and the Sunflower.'" She lifted her head, her eyes shimmering with longing. I bent down and brushed her nose. "No problem." She stood on tiptoe to peck the corner of my mouth, her soft warmth seeping into my heart. I held her close, listening to the steady beat of her heart. "My father is returning next week; he wants to meet you." She whispered softly in my arms. I tightened my embrace, feeling a little uneasy. "I haven't graduated; I have no house or car. Do you think your father will like me?" "He loves me the most." She looked up and smoothed my furrowed brow, her gaze steady. "I've chosen you. He will accept it." At that moment, I wished time would stand still—warm sunlight, my beloved in my arms, and the future brimming with hope. I had never imagined that a sudden downpour would fall without warning.