He should know better than to say that specific phrase to her. Or maybe this was him attempting to know better, one of his little games at getting her out of her shell or-or spread her wings or whatever the metaphors he so loved using. Like he knew better because he was her father, but Alicia only sank further into herself, eyes narrowed down at the atelier's paint-stained floor. Away from his prying, hopeful gaze, away from that canvas mocking her with its blank slate. Alicia didn't know which one was worse. Worst of all, she felt the most frustrated with herself for being unable to obey such a simple command. ( But why should she listen? Especially at this clear sign of goading. It was like Papa was trying to get a rise out of her. And what would that accomplish? )
And so, she responded with a stubborn shake of her head, even as a million replies clawed at the base of her throat, yet the tiniest act of opening her mouth silenced them altogether. And then... foot lashed out, and her shoe collided with the side of a paint can, sending it rolling across the room. She didn't watch where it landed but instead whirled around and marched away from what she presumed was going to be another lecture.
Alicia only made it a step out the door before that creeping, ever constant feeling of being less-than bubbled up, and she paused a moment. It was agony, this idea of Renoir knowing her better than she ever could, when all she knew for sure was that she was screwing something up yet again. If she knew that, so would he, and that unleashed another torrent of anxiety over his possible disappointment. She wasn't Verso, who clearly held his affection, nor Clea whom he so often praised. And here she was, screwing up even the most basic of tasks.
Fumbling with her body, what she wanted to do, and then a word did form on her lips, a summary of her thoughts exactly. "Why?"