The boy sat at his desk long into the night, the dim
lamplight casting long shadows across the room.
He wanted to draw.
But he didn't want to see her.
He didn't want to see the girl who shouldn't exist, who
shouldn't be a part of him, who had no right to occupy
the same space in the world—or in his mind.
Yet, as soon as he touched the pencil, his hand moved
on its own.
Lines began to form on the paper. Curves and shapes
that weren't just shapes—they were her.
Her body curled inward, knees pressed to her chest,
tiny hands reaching toward something she could not
grasp.
Her eyes were closed, fragile, almost smiling—but
trembling.
The boy's chest ached. Pain radiated outward, sharp
and physical, as though he were the one trapped in her
pose.
He tried to stop, to erase the lines. But his fingers were too slow.
The pencil snapped in two with a sharp crack.
He fell back in his chair, clutching the broken pieces,
trembling.
Tears came unbidden, but he didn't cry for himself.
He cried for her.
For hours, he stared at the page.
The broken pencil lay on the desk like a relic. The girl in
the drawing seemed to pulse faintly, her body leaning
slightly forward as if she were begging him to finish, to
stay, to notice her.
Something inside him stirred. A whisper in the deepest part of his mind, soft and fragile:
"Don't leave me."
He froze.
No one had spoken.
No one could have.
And yet, he knew it was her.
The ache behind his eye returned, sharper this time.
It felt like the weight of two hearts pressed against his
skull. He pressed his palms against his eyes, hoping to block
it out.
But the pressure only grew stronger, until he felt it
radiating down his arms, into his chest, into the very
core of him.
His hand drifted to the notebook again, trembling.
He began to draw.
Not lines. Not shapes.
Fingers. Hair. A faint curve of lips. A tiny shoulder
pressed against an unseen chest.
The more he drew, the more the pain lessened.
He realized, with a shiver, that drawing her was the
only way he could breathe.
Hours passed.
Outside, the wind moaned through the trees.
The moon rose, pale and distant. The boy didn't notice. He
didn't move.
By the time he finally leaned back, exhausted, the page
before him was complete.
The girl's eyes were open.
Not fully aware, not fully alive—just a spark.
And it hurt him more than he had ever been hurt.
He pressed his forehead against the desk.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
No one heard him.
But he knew.
She had heard him.
She always heard him.
That night, he slept lightly, his pillow wet with tears.
In dreams, she appeared again.
Standing behind him this time, small hands resting on
his shoulders.
Silent. Protective. Watching.
He woke at dawn with a pounding heart and a strange
calm.
He understood something: whatever she was, she
needed him as much as he needed her.
And that realization filled him with both fear and a
strange, unshakable determination.