The blank canvas on Maya’s easel felt less like an invitation and more like a judgment. Three days. Three days since the forced smiles and intertwined fingers at Auntie Ngozi’s anniversary party. Three days since she’d performed the role of Kian’s doting partner, an act so convincing it left an unpleasant aftertaste, like cheap wine. The memory clung to her, a sticky film over her usual clarity. She’d tried to escape into her art, into the controlled chaos of pigments and textures, but the silence of her studio, once a sanctuary, now felt porous. Through the floorboards, a rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a mortar and pestle vibrated, a faint bass line to the distant cacophony of lunch service at Oba’s. Laughter, clanking cutlery, the sizzle of plantains – a symphony of vibrant life that was entirely alien to the muted, predictable hum of her old downtown loft. She’d always found peace in quiet, in the deep, resonant echoes of her own thoughts. Here, above Kian’s bustling restaurant, her thoughts were constantly vying for attention against a chorus of Nigerian and Caribbean rhythms. It was a beautiful noise, objectively, but one that frayed the edges of her concentration, each thud a reminder of her precarious situation. She picked up a charcoal stick, a familiar weight in her hand, but her gaze kept drifting to the window. Below, the vibrant mural she’d painted for Oba’s when they were kids – a lush, stylized market scene – seemed to mock her with its innocence. She remembered the pure joy of creating it, Kian’s enthusiastic descriptions of his mother’s cooking inspiring every brushstroke. Now, that joy was a faded pigment, overshadowed by the complicated shades of their present. A soft knock at her studio door, followed by Kian’s voice, startled her. “Maya? You in there?” She internally sighed. “Yeah.” The door creaked open, and he leaned in, a half-apron cinched around his waist, a smudge of flour on his cheek. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes a little deeper than she remembered from five years ago. But his smile, though weary, still held that easy charm that used to disarm her. It was a smile she’d painstakingly built a wall against. “Just checking in,” he said, his gaze sweeping over her setup, lingering briefly on the untouched canvas. “Dinner rush is about to start. Thought you might want some peace before it gets too loud.” “Thanks for the warning,” she said, her tone drier than she intended. She set the charcoal down with a soft click. “I’m used to it now. Sort of.” He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Give it time. You’ll be craving jollof rice by osmosis.” He paused, shifting his weight. “About Saturday… you were really good. Too good, almost.” Her spine stiffened. “Is that a complaint?” “No, not at all. Just… an observation. My aunties are convinced we’re madly in love. Auntie Kemi even asked if you had a ring on yet.” He ran a hand through his closely cropped hair, a gesture of exasperation. “I told her we’re taking it slow. She said, ‘Slow like a snail, or slow like a wise man building a house?’ You’ve made quite the impression.” Maya felt a flush creep up her neck. “Well, I’m an artist, Kian. Performance is part of the job. You asked for a convincing show.” “And you delivered,” he conceded, his eyes holding hers for a beat too long. There was something in their depth that she couldn’t quite decipher, a ghost of shared laughter, a hint of unspoken regret. She hated how easily he could still slip past her defenses, even for a moment. “Look, I actually came up for something else. Remember how you mentioned wanting to organize the spare room for your art supplies?” She nodded, grateful for the change of topic. “Yeah, it’s a mess. My boxes are still everywhere.” “Well, I finished clearing out my old gaming gear this morning. It’s pretty empty now. I was thinking, if you want, we could tackle it together? Might be quicker with two people. And… less dusty.” He grimaced. “Definitely less dusty.” The offer, though practical, felt like an olive branch, a small attempt at camaraderie beyond their contractual agreement. Maya usually preferred to work alone, meticulously organizing her space to reflect her internal order. But the idea of her art supplies scattered in boxes, half-unpacked, was a persistent itch. And, she grudgingly admitted, the sheer volume of her materials was daunting. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Just to clarify, this isn’t part of the marriage performance, is it? Because I charge extra for manual labor.” He laughed, a genuine, unforced sound that softened the lines around his eyes. “Nah, just good old-fashioned roommate-who-also-happens-to-be-my-fake-wife cooperation. Unless you want me to pretend to kiss your forehead every time you hand me a box.” “Absolutely not,” she retorted, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “Let’s just… organize.” --- The ‘spare room’ was more accurately a storage space that had seen better days, now cleared of Kian’s detritus, leaving only a faint smell of old electronics and a thin film of dust. Maya wrinkled her nose. Her fastidiousness, a trait Kian used to tease her about, was already on high alert. “See?” Kian said, gesturing grandly with a dust rag. “Less dusty. I lied about ‘less.’ It’s just dusty.” Maya rolled her eyes, pulling on a pair of latex gloves from her pocket. “Good thing I came prepared.” She eyed the single, rickety bookshelf. “This won’t be enough. I need flat storage for canvases, and proper shelving for paints, brushes, and solvents. This room needs to be functional.” “Okay, my lady, your wish is my command. Or, at least, your wish is something I can order on Amazon Prime. What exactly do you need?” He pulled out his phone, already looking up shelving units. It was surprisingly easy, explaining her requirements, describing the specific dimensions for her larger works, the need for ventilation, and the ideal lighting. Kian listened intently, occasionally interjecting with practical questions about weight capacity or assembly. For a moment, their conversation transcended the awkwardness of their living arrangement, touching on a shared goal, a collaborative project. It almost felt… normal. Like old times, when he’d bounce ideas off her for a new dish and she’d sketch potential plating arrangements. As they sifted through the boxes of her supplies, carefully labeled and packed by her own hand, fragments of their past seemed to rise with the stirred dust. A specific shade of cerulean blue reminded her of a collaborative piece they’d done in university, a mural for a local community centre that was still there, vibrant and hopeful. A stack of art history textbooks brought back late-night study sessions in his dorm room, fuelled by stale coffee and his mother’s puff-puffs. “Remember this?” Kian asked, holding up a small, crudely painted wooden figurine. It was a tiny, brightly coloured yam, complete with miniature vines. “You made this for me when I was stressing about my first culinary school application.” Maya took it, her fingers tracing the rough edges. “You said it was a good luck yam. You always over-analyzed everything. Still do, I bet.” He grinned. “Still do. Did it work, though?” “You got in, didn’t you?” She handed it back, trying to keep her voice even. The yam was a tangible echo of a time when their bond felt unbreakable, when the future seemed a bright, shared path. Now, it was just another artifact in a room full of them. They worked in a comfortable rhythm, Kian disassembling the old shelf, Maya sorting her tubes of paint by color and medium. The initial tension in the room gradually dissipated, replaced by the quiet sounds of their activity. The restaurant noise below became less of an intrusion and more of a backdrop, a steady pulse of life. “You know,” Kian said, breaking the silence, his back to her as he wrestled with a stubborn bolt, “it’s good to have some of your stuff here. Makes the place feel more… lived in. Less like a temporary stop.” Maya paused, a half-sorted box of pastels in her hands. She looked at his broad back, the faint sheen of sweat on his neck. His words, simple as they were, struck a chord. She’d always seen this as a temporary stop, a year-long inconvenience before she could reclaim her solitary, ordered life. But as she saw her vibrant paints spilling out of boxes, her canvases waiting to be stretched, she realized she was already imprinting her existence onto this space, whether she wanted to or not. This wasn’t just Kian’s apartment anymore. It was, for now, *their* apartment. The thought was both unsettling and strangely, deeply comforting. “It’ll be even better once we get proper storage,” she finally said, her voice softer than she intended. She picked up a brush, a small, intricate detail brush, and absently traced patterns on the palm of her glove. “Then I can actually get some work done in here.” Kian turned, a faint smile playing on his lips. He caught her eye, and for a fleeting moment, the carefully constructed walls between them wavered. It wasn't the knowing gaze of a fake husband, or the wary look of an old friend with unfinished business. It was something else – an acknowledgment, perhaps, of a quiet truce being forged amidst the dust and the echoes of their past. The 'no feelings' rule, she realized, was going to be a lot harder to enforce than she'd imagined. The air in the small room, thick with the scent of old paper and the promise of new creations, suddenly felt charged with an electricity that had nothing to do with faulty wiring.

Chapter 4: The Canvas and the Clatter