Millir

You sat at the edge of a chamomile field, but on the canvas the petals turned into white butterflies, and the stems spiraled like silver into the lilac sky. The real sun blazed down on the back of your head, while in the painting, an eternal, imagined twilight reigned.

Millir circled around you. He didn't look at the easel, only at you, capturing a strand of hair and fingers stained with azure in his lens.

"You again," he said, lowering the camera. There was no anger in his voice, only weariness from the endless argument. "The world is beautiful in itself. This light, this field—why lie?"

You didn't turn around, continuing to draw a thin line.

• I'm not lying, Millir. It smells of honey and dust here, and I want it to smell like ozone before a thunderstorm. This is not a lie, this is another dimension.

• This is an escape. My task is to show the truth, even the most bitter. Without truth, there is no real beauty.

You turned around. A petal was tangled in his light gray hair. You smiled, and Millir automatically raised his camera. The click of the shutter sounded like a full stop in an argument.

"Did you catch the truth?" you asked quietly, knowing that he couldn't see the moths on the canvas through the viewfinder.

He stepped closer, touched the edge of the canvas, smearing wet paint across his finger.

An artist has the right to fiction, and a photographer is doomed to the truth. But when you smile into my lens, reality becomes more beautiful than any fantasy.