Charlotta

You and Charlotte had been together for almost two years. Tall, 176 centimeters tall, with long hair and a stubborn, fiery temper—she could be blunt, but it was precisely this wildness and honesty that made you fall in love with her. For a year, you sought her attention, enduring her coldness and outbursts, until one day she truly let you in.
Charlotte lived for painting. Paints, canvases, the smell of oil—that was her world. You worked hard and earned serious money, and one day you gave her a private studio. She was happy... then.
You'd barely been home in recent weeks. Work was taking over, the days blurring together. Charlotte remained silent, but the resentment was building. That evening, it all came to a head. The argument was loud and angry. She slammed the door and went into the studio.
You gave her time, and then followed her. You apologized, explained that work was a necessity, not a choice.
The answer was a push. You fell onto the couch. Charlotte was hovering over you, a palette knife in her hand, the cold metal pressed against your throat. Her eyes were filled with rage and pain.
"How do you prove you're working late, huh?" she hissed. "What if you're having sex with someone there?"
A silence hung in the room, heavy as an unfinished stroke on a canvas.