So instead of writing, I sketch.
My pen moves without permission. Lines and shadows taking shape on the page before me. A jawline. The curve of a brow. I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I’m halfway through.
Him.
A messy portrait. The set of his mouth, the weight of hisstare, the slight crease between his brows. It’s not perfect, but it’s how I see him.
It’s stupid, I know it is. But drawing calms me. It’s the one thing that helps me breathe when everything else in my chest feels too tight.
I glance at him every few seconds to get the details right. Not because I need to, I’ve memorized him already, but because I want to. Because a part of me wants to capture this version of him before it disappears under all the rules and expectations.
And then I feel it.
That shift in the air. That silent warning in my skin. Someone’s standing too close.
I look up.
He’s right there.
Mr. Hayes.
He’s staring down at my notebook, at my drawing—at himself.
My heart lurches in my chest and I feel the blood rush to my face. I slam my hand over the page like that’ll somehow undo what he just saw.
His expression doesn’t change, not exactly. But there’s something in his eyes I can’t read. Surprise? Tension? Maybe nothing… maybe I’m imagining it. He hovers there for just a second too long, then moves on. Leaving me rattled in his wake.
I spend the rest of class staring at the corner of my desk, pretending to write, pretending not to exist. I don’t look up again. I can’t.
When the bell rings, I’m already halfway packed. Ready to disappear and erase the last hour from memory.
But then his voice cuts through the chaos of scraping chairs and rustling paper.
“Drop your pages on my desk before you leave. I won’t read them—just confirming participation. You’ll get them backtomorrow.”
I freeze.
He saw it. He already saw it. But now he’ll have it.
I could fake something else. Scrawl a few messy lines and pretend it’s what I'd been working on this whole time, but something stubborn rises in me. If he’s going to see how I see him,reallysee him, then fine.
Let him.
He crossed the line first. Whether he meant to or not, he walked into my life, not the other way around.
Sal drops her paper on the pile and throws me a quick grin over her shoulder. “You good?” she mouths.
I nod. Barely.
I walk up, place the page face-up on the stack, making no move to try to hide it. Then I hold my chin high and leave the room.
The second I step into the hallway, I can finally breathe again. My pulse is still racing, my skin still hot. I don’t know what he thought when he saw it. If he thinks I’m obsessed, or if he thinks it’s a joke… If he thinks about me at all.
But it’s out there now.
No taking it back.
5
