"it's pretty." you decide, leaning your head against rafayel's shoulder. his body is warm next to yours, sturdy and soft and familiar. home.
"oh?" rafayel chuckles and wraps his arm around you. pulls you closer because that's where you and him belong. "i thought you didn't like his work. what changed?"
you take a moment, thinking about what to say. it's not like your aesthetic preferences have changed all that much and the masterpiece before you certainly didn't change, so what is different?
the muted colors are the same, blurring together until they become pieces of an intricate puzzle. you can appreciate each swipe of the palette knife, finding yourself wondering just how many attempts it took to perfect it.
the atmosphere is the same, too. families and friends and children and couples all wander around. each one having their own conversations about the various pieces, laughing and learning and enjoying themselves. but yet, it's all background noise to you—barely even there. you don't focus on them like you used to. instead, it's like you and rafayel are the only ones in the galley.
rafayel, who sees the beauty in everything. the worth of everyone. who looks at you as if you hung the stars in the sky yourself and the reason the sun rises every morning.
maybe it's not you who changed, or your likes. maybe it's just because of the company you're with. maybe it's because you met him. and maybe it's because you can sit here, just like you did all those years ago, but now you're shoulder to shoulder with someone who compliments you in every possible way.
"i think i just see it differently now."