The boy tried not to draw her again.
He told himself it had been an accident—a tired hand,
a wandering mind, nothing more. He stacked his
notebooks neatly, sharpened his pencils, and promised
himself he would draw only landscapes for a while.
Trees. Roads. Empty rooms.
It didn't work.
No matter what he started with, his lines curved back
to her. A shadow became a shoulder. A leaf turned into
hair. Before he realized it, her face stared back at him
from the page.
Always the same.
Always waiting.
He never gave her a name. Names made things real,and whatever she was, she already felt too real.
At school, he began drifting.
Teachers called his name, but it sounded distant, as if
spoken underwater. His gaze slipped to the corners of
his notebooks, to the spaces where she might appear if
he let his hand move freely.Once, during a math lesson, he caught himself drawing
her eyes again.
His heart skipped.
The bell rang suddenly, and the notebook snapped
shut. He felt a strange loss, sharp and immediate, as if
he had abandoned someone mid-sentence.
At home, the air felt heavier.
The quiet he once liked now pressed against him. He
began leaving his bedroom door open at night, just a
little, though he couldn't explain why.
Sometimes, while lying in bed, he felt a gentle pressure
in his chest—soft, rhythmic.
He counted his breaths.One.
Two.
Then stopped.
There was another rhythm, slower than his own.
He pressed his hand to his chest, listening.
It faded as soon as he noticed it, leaving behind a
hollow ache.
That night, he dreamed of water.
Not drowning—floating.Warmth surrounded him, muffled and safe. He felt
small. Protected. As if the world beyond this space was
dangerous and far away.
He heard crying.
Not loud.
Not desperate.
Just sad.
When he tried to move toward the sound, the dream
dissolved.
He woke with tears on his face.
The room was quiet, but the sadness lingered, heavy
and misplaced.
On his desk, his notebook lay open.On his desk, his notebook lay open.
He was certain he had closed it.
The page showed the girl again—unfinished this time.
Her eyes were closed, her expression peaceful but
fragile, like someone sleeping in a place they didn't
belong.
His hands trembled.
"I won't draw you anymore," he whispered.
The pressure behind his eyes sharpened briefly, then
eased.Over the next few days, he noticed changes in himself.
He reacted to things before they happened—flinching
moments before a door slammed, stepping aside just
before someone bumped into him. His emotions
shifted without warning. Happiness turned to sadness
without reason. Fear bloomed in safe places.
Once, while crossing the street, his foot stopped midstep.
A car rushed past.
His heart hammered violently.
He stood frozen, unsure whether the danger had been
real—or imagined.
That evening, he returned to his room and sat at his
desk for a long time without drawing.
Finally, he opened the notebook.He didn't look at the page as he spoke.
"Are you lonely?"
The room remained silent.
But something in his chest loosened.
When he finally glanced down, the girl's drawing
remained unchangedYet somehow—He knew.
She had heard him.