The selfie, titled Portrait #2, is the only one in which she speaks directly to someone. And knowing all I know, I don’t think it’s presumptuous to assume she’s talking to me.

We didn’t do the second portrait that night, remember? It was the reason we’d come, and we fell asleep before we could finish what we’d started. Tonight I’m going to finish what I started. And then I’m going to put this in my rearview mirror where it belongs.

Here’s what I don’t understand though. Here’s what I’ve been trying to figure out for a long time. How do you let go of something that lives inside of you? How do you remove something that feels attached to your ribcage and wrapped around your heart? How do you cut that out without losing a piece of yourself in the process?

Art?

Maybe.

That’s how our story began.

With art.

Mine, not yours.

Or was it?

The first thing I asked you was how you felt about art, and do you remember what you said? You said it was a way to tell the truth. And right away I knew. Not because I liked your face—though I did. Not because I was looking for a lover—I was not. But because something about you felt like home.

You inspired me.

And isn’t that where all great art starts?

Isn’t inspiration born in those imaginary moments that incite riots and recognition in our spirits?

Most people think of inspiration as a kind of mystical influence that stirs the mind or the soul, but the verb “to inspire” also means “to draw in.” Specifically, it’s the drawing of air into the lungs. Think about that. Inspiration is how we breathe. It’s how we stay alive.

I told you this once before. We were watching a bird outside the window, and I told you there was something about your energy, in its almost comical melancholy, that inspired me in ways I still don’t know how to explain. But the words coming to me now are these: You reminded me of who and what I am. That is, an artist. Oh, I know, I was an artist long before you strolled into my studio, and I am an artist without you now. But you know as well as I do that artists often feel like hacks. We exist in vacuums for long periods of time and need someone or something that reflects our work back to us in a way that allows us to see it in a different light. To see ourselves in a different light.

You did that for me. You got me out of my head and back into my heart. And that meant something to me. It meant something to you too. I know it did.

At this point in the clip, October puts her sketchbook and pencil down and paces around the room. The camera follows her to the painting above the recliner, the one of the wave crashing onto the beach. She reaches out and touches it, and she laughs, and I know with complete certainty that she’s remembering the night we were there together, and how we thought the water was going to spill out over the chair.