I stared at the address for the rest of the day. I didn't recognize it, not even the street. When I showed it to Ramona, she only shook her head, saying the same thing.

I mapped it out on my phone. It was nearly an hour walk from my apartment, shorter by subway. The area seemed deserted from the map, old streets with no buildings aside from one. I sighed and shoved my phone into my pocket, then left my apartment to walk to the subway.

I wasn't just curious about what Truman wanted to show me. It felt like I was rooting for him, too. Like I wanted him to prove me wrong. To show me that there was this hidden part of him that was worth caring for.

Mostly, I wanted to know that he didn't give up on Katie when he left. Maybe then, I could trick myself into believing he didn't give up on us, either.

My Converse squeaked against the shiny subway floors as I sat down, headphones in. It wasn't busy at this time of day, not like the mornings or late afternoon when people were commuting from work and school. Now, the subway was dead. I sat back, turned up my music, and placed my feet on the seat in front of me, tugging my knees to my chest.

I opened Instagram last night for the first time in a while to see students from my Art class posting photos with Truman, the two of them smiling into the camera like he was some sort of celebrity. I rolled my eyes as I scrolled, deliberately not liking any of them.

They were swooning over him, and it pissed me off. He had a girlfriend, I knew that, and it wasn't jealousy I felt. I couldn't put my finger on what it was, though. Maybe it had to do with the fact that I was trying to move forward after the accident, but I couldn't. One foot was firmly stuck in the past, always at Katie's bedside, waiting for her eyes to open and tell me what it was we were doing next. Because that's how it always had been.

Katie made the rules, I just followed.

She decided how we would spend our weekends. She chose who we sat with at lunch. She forced me into that promise, knowingly deciding who I could and couldn't love. And I went along with all of it, without ever questioning why I was so quick to follow her.

Now, I was realizing that it was wrong. That I shouldn't have let her control me like that. That I never even saw it as her controlling me until this very moment, when everything suddenly seemed to make sense.

It felt wrong to think negatively of her, knowing her current condition. I pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on the music instead of the past.

When I was at the stop closest to the address Truman gave me, I walked off the subway and focused on the journey. The streets were dead here, unlike the busy intersections of Dundas Square that were always filled with people.

I pulled my bag tighter to my chest, contemplating calling Truman while I walked, but not wanting to feel like I needed him. Or worse, have him think that and inflate his ego.

Eventually, I arrived. It was a little past five, and I could already hear the insult that would roll off his tongue so effortlessly, see the smile that would accompany it.

I eyed my phone, watching the blue dot on the map that indicated this was the right place.

An abandoned warehouse stood before me. The windows were broken, pieces of glass missing in jagged edges. The air smelt faintly of cigarettes and paint, and I scrunched up my nose. The smoke alone was an indication that Truman was near.

Rolling my eyes and wondering what the fuck Truman had set me up for, I pounded on the metal door that was filled with dents in almost every spot.

A minute later it was tugged open and a smiling Truman stood before me. His white t-shirt was covered in blue paint, flecks of it covered his hair, his cheekbones, dotting his neck and disappearing under the collar of his shirt.

His eyes met mine. "Hey," he said, holding the door wider. "You came."

I stepped inside, our shoulders touching briefly. "I was curious."

Truman chuckled and grabbed my hand, tugging me through the large space. If he sensed the way my fingers tensed, he didn't show it.

The walls were white, ceilings high. The floor creaked as we walked to the centre of the room where different pieces of furniture sat. I eyed them: the dresser, the bed, the lamps and the bookshelves that were half painted.

My eyes roamed over the space, following the scent of wood until landing on a station in the corner that was filled with saw dust. A long table was stationed there, with what looked to be some type of wood cutter on top beside a pair of safety goggles.

I eyed the paint covering Truman, then the dozens of cans and brushes on the floor, before I turned to him.

"What is this?" I asked, walking towards the furniture. I was about to run my fingers across the surface when Truman grabbed my hand, pulling me away.

He smiled sheepishly. "The paint's wet."

I had never seen him like this before. The way he shifted on his feet, fingers tucked into the pockets of his jeans that were also covered in specks of paint. I've never seen him embarrassed.

It was then that I realized this warehouse was a secret.

"Did you do all this?" I gestured to the bookshelves, the bed frames. "Build this? Paint it too?"

He nodded, eyes shining with what could only be pride. "Yeah," he said, dimple popping out as he smiled.

"Who is this for?" I realized how ridiculous the question was after I asked it.

"Katie." He said her name so gently that I felt myself move towards him, fingers itching to touch.

"Why?" I whispered. "I don't understand."

The heaviness that lingered around us seemed to disappear as Truman laughed. He watched me, amused, and tugged my bag off my shoulder before setting it on a chair in the corner.

"I don't know if Katie ever told you this," he began, picking up a paint brush and dipping it into a can of paint the lightest shade of blue, "but she had this dream, Eden, of having a bedroom that looked like the sky."

I watched the way he smiled as he spoke about his sister, hand gently stroking the brush against the wooden bookshelf.

"When she was little, that was all she talked about," he continued. "The sky and wanting to fly, touch the clouds." His voice sounded far away now. He was gazing out the window, into the sun. "I wanted to make this for her, for when she wakes up."

He turned to me now and my breath caught. "I want to give her the sky, Eden. I . . . I didn't give her much when she was here, but maybe I can still give her this one thing."

I was standing beside him before I even realized my feet were moving. It was like a gravitational pull, and Truman was the centre of the Earth.

"This is what you've been doing." I eyed the blue paint, the bookshelf that he built from scratch. "She's going to love this, Truman. This . . ." I smiled at him, and he returned it instantly. "It's incredible."

"You think so?" I nodded and his hand reached for mine, then pulled back quickly. "Thanks, Eden."

And suddenly I felt like a jerk for what I said yesterday, accusing him of spending his days hiding, avoiding his problems when he was here, doing much more for Katie than I was.

"I want to help you," I blurted out. His eyebrows raised, hand stopping mid-stroke. "If that's cool," I added.

Truman only laughed, handing me his paint brush. "Here," he said, gesturing to the bookshelf. "You can finish this. I'm adding the clouds later."

I nodded and began to paint the wood, watching the way the blue covered the white until the sky seemed to be everywhere.

"What is this place?" I called over my shoulder.

I watched Truman from the corner of my eye as he grabbed a hammer, a few nails and sat beside a headboard that was shaped like a cloud.

He nailed one into the wood before answering. "My parents haven't stepped into Katie's room since the accident." Truman's back was to me but I could imagine the look on his face, the hard set of his jaw. "They won't let anyone go in there. Won't let me touch a damn thing." He sighed, turning to me with a sad smile. "I rented out this place to build and store the furniture here for now, since I can't go in her room without my mom crying."

"That's why you took the modelling job," I added. "And then what?"

Truman stood up, shrugging. "One day, when she wakes up, I'll replace the furniture in her room with this."

I stopped painting and eyed him curiously. He was watching me, waiting, with his arms crossed. The sleeves of his t-shirt were tugged up, showing his toned biceps that were also covered in paint. There was a black line peeking out, a tattoo I haven't noticed before.

I looked away. "You said when she wakes up. Not if."

"Because she'll wake up, Eden. One day."

I couldn't help the doubt that filled my voice, the same doubt that filled my mind every time I stood beside her bed. "You really believe that?"

He nodded. "I do."

Silence fell around us for a while as we painted. I could hear the flick of a lighter, then the smell of smoke that filled the air, mixing with the paint. I turned slowly, watching Truman. His back was to me, tilted slightly so I could see the side of his face, the cigarette dangling from between his lips as he painted clouds onto a dresser.

He was beautiful. I hated myself for thinking it, but the thought was there all the same. And for a single moment, I regretted leaving class yesterday without painting him, because Truman Falls had the type of face that deserved to be painted. Maybe it was the way his black hair curled behind his ears, or how his teeth held the cigarette as he painted. Or the way his nose was slightly crooked from when he broke it in high school.

Whatever it was, Truman was like a work of art. All of him.

"Eden?" I blinked and he was staring at me, smiling as he blew out a cloud of smoke. "Thought you wanted to paint, not stare."

"I can do both," I said with a shrug.

His eyes seemed to brighten at that. The cigarette fell from his fingers as he walked closer, gaze locked on mine. The room seemed to shrink and then he was in front of me, close enough to touch.

"You have a little . . ." Truman's finger reached up slowly, brushing the paint off my cheek. "There," he said, smiling.

He was too close. Too intoxicating. Paint swirled onto his skin, hiding beneath his t-shirt. I wanted to take it off, to see where the blue and white lines decorated him.

More than that, I wanted to kiss him.

I had always wondered why my parents named me Eden like the biblical garden. In that moment, when Truman was so close that I could see the green mixing with the blue of his eyes, I understood. It was the temptation to want something I couldn't have. And the danger that come with it. The risk.

Wanting Truman the way I did in that moment was both: tempting and dangerous.

Instead of giving in and slamming my mouth to his, I clutched the paint brush in my hand and flicked it at his face, laughing as the blue paint splattered across his cheeks, forehead and the lids of his eyes.

He barely had time to blink before I reached down and dunked my fingers into the can, then stood on my tip-toes and ran them through his hair, turning the dark strands blue.

"Eden!" He screamed an impressive slew of profanities as I ran away, laughing so hard my stomach ached.

I was doubled over, clutching my chest when I heard his foot steps approach the wooden desk I was hiding behind.

"Eden," he warned. His head peeked around the desk. "Step away from the furniture."

I grinned. His mouth tugged up, trying to smile. He was fighting it. I eyed the paintbrush in his hand, the can of blue paint in the other.

"No," I said.

"Eden—"

I ran, shrieking as his arms locked around my waist. Truman spun me around until we were facing one another. He was breathing quickly, one hand locked on my waist, the other holding the can of paint.

I gulped. "Please don't."

His eyes gleamed, hair shining blue under the sunlight.

"You really are a little devil," he whispered into my ear. It was enough to distract me until he dumped the can over my head.

"Truman!" I shrieked. The paint was pouring down my face, my shoulders, landing on the toes of my shoes. "You asshole!" I wiped the paint from my eyes to find him laying on the ground, rolling around as he laughed.

He was rolling in fucking paint, but he didn't even notice. He was smiling. He was happy. I couldn't remember he last time I saw Truman happy. Or the last time I was happy.

I kneeled beside him, hiding the brush behind my back. Truman stopped rolling, breathing heavy as he laid on his back, staring up at me. The paint had already dried on his face, flecks of blue across his skin.

I reached out and ran my fingers through his hair, separating the strands from the paint that stuck to it. I could see his chest rise faster, feel the way his eyes were locked on my face as I stared at my fingers running through his hair.

"Tru?" He only nodded as my eyes moved to his. I ran my thumb across his bottom lip, then slammed the paint brush onto his face.

I was prepared to run away when his hands locked onto my wrists, pulling me to the floor beside him.

"Okay," he breathed, turning his head to face me, cheek resting on the cold floor. "You win, Eden. You always win."

I laughed to hide the way my heart was beating. It was one of those moments that I could hear it more then feel it. It was there, pulsing in my ears, ringing in my mind. I wondered if Truman could hear it, too.

We laid there, blue paint on our skin, smiling at one another. I knew that time was still ticking away, that somewhere outside these four walls, people were rushing through the city. But here, watching the paint dry on Truman's skin, made it feel like nothing else existed.

"Your eyes are like the sky," I told him. They were blue and vast and terrifying.

And when Truman's fingers curled around mine, I let them.

_______________________