The next time the canvas deigned to feign sentience, it wasn’t entirely by its choice. This had it wondering (as much as something with multiple layers of paint could), if it truly was simply pretending to have thoughts, or if it actually could think. A nudge near its top brought it back (if its thoughts even had wandered) to what had made it aware again (or what had made it want to suppose again). Oh. This was all too confusing for a bit of canvas, even one as large as this was. It decided to stick to the belief that it was pretending to think and see and know and have an opinion.

What had brought it out from its non-conscious state had been the slight push of the tip of a brush, adding stars to the multi-hued sky that covered the canvas. One poke and then another. As if no one had told Jiyong that he didn’t have to individually paint each little dot.

The canvas suddenly realized (with as much realization as it could manage), how extraordinary the thought of Jiyong near it was. If it hadn’t been so well tacked to the frame, the canvas would have tried its best to give him a hug, to hell with technicalities of ‘life’. However, since it couldn’t do that, it told itself that it was ­content­ and happy and excited, just like the green-haired man in front of him. So, it declared to itself that it was sitting back, and letting the magic unfold, and busied itself in cataloguing the photographs and paintings that once again lined the walls in front of him.

Almost immediately it told itself that it was noticing a change. The walls were no longer divided into all monochrome and all colour, although that was an aesthetic that had grown on it. Ha! The only thing growing on it were the details and layers of paint that Jiyong periodically added. Oh look. That was a joke. It was funny now. Anyway, back to the photographs. It appeared as if its advice (alright, Seunghyun’s advice) to mix the two had been heeded. And instead of the rice lights, twine hung crisscrossed across the ceiling, with what looked like swing tags threaded through it.

The canvas decided that all its efforts to convince itself of its creator’s sanity had been in vain. But that was okay. A thread of it, one that ran near its middle, believed that sanity was overrated, especially because none of the other threads could aptly define what it actually meant.

“Tabi!” Jiyong called, as he turned away from the canvas, much to its annoyance. It had been a long time since it had been looked at by him, and he still chose to look away? The blasphemy! The disrespect! And who was Tabi anyway?

Perhaps it had been the maleficence of the canvas’ not-thoughts, or maybe just his clumsiness, all it saw was suddenly flailing arms as Jiyong stumbled from the stool he had chosen to stand on to reach the upper parts of the painting.

The canvas prepared itself to not-react to what looked like an imminent disaster, when Jiyong was righted up again. It did not understand (and figured that this is what confused meant), and was about to file a complaint against gravity’s blatant bias, when it saw hands resting on the waist of the almost-hurt man and then Seunghyun peeked out at it from behind Jiyong.

Of course. It rolled its figurative eyes, when all it managed was blow off a few dust specks (Or maybe that was the air-conditioning, but the canvas was great at pretending anyway).

“Careful there.”

Jiyong grinned, “Thanks Tabi.” He twisted to drop a kiss to his saviour’s head.

The canvas found itself revisiting the meaning of ‘confused’ because when did ‘Seunghyun’ change to ‘Tabi’? Or was this someone else and the layers of paint made it worse to play-act at seeing?

Either way, Jiyong held a brush, and arms to hold him upright, and the painting was getting more details, and the walls hummed as the song’s sound waves bounced off of them. All was alright.

Except the question of how much pretending was real pretending and how much pretending was really real.