And now she was playing golf with her twin and my dad. The entire field before me seemed to glow, whether the weather or just her. I couldn’t stop smiling as her soft laughter rang across the green and into my ears.
It was infectious. Everything about her was.
When she was happy or sad, it spilt over to me.
That was why I loved making her happy. It was like creating my own happiness.
Sophie had me wrapped around her finger, and I didn’t mind in the slightest. In fact, I hoped she’d never let me go.
I hoped she would never leave me.
I needed her here.
With me.
But that beautiful sight was shattered when my brother came chirping beside me. I lifted my gaze, “What?” I muttered, then returned to sketching the beauty before me.
Zeraiah hummed, snatched my sketchbook, filled to the brim, and started flipping through the pages, whistling as though he intended to bother me. He dragged a chair over and sat beside me, determined to pester. “Staring at people like that from afar,” he tossed out the words, “and drawing them. Both are creepy, so pick one.”
Letting out a breath, I smirked and carried on shading. “Talk to yourself,” I murmured. “I’d rather draw them than talk about them.”
My eyes drifted back to Sophie, laughing with her twin and my dad, as she tried to catch a dragonfly on the field.
“Wait—did you just call me a gossiper?” Zeraiah snapped, affronted. “I only ever talk facts when it’s about people, and—BLOODY HELL, MAN, THAT’S GOOD!”
His voice boomed before he could finish his defence. He’d caught sight of what I was drawing—Sophie on the course, with the lake as her backdrop.
Leaning closer, he gawked with exaggerated awe. “Damn, I always knew you were good, but this one’s something else.”
I knew.
I was aware.
I glanced at him, and Zeraiah was still staring, dumbstruck, when his voice broke out again in disbelief. “You even brought bloody crayons? To the golf course? You seriously thought about packing coloured pencils?”
“Always comes in one set,” I replied without looking at him, still focused on Sophie as I drew. “Every sketchbook I bring has coloured pencils in the kit.”
“Really?” He was quiet for a moment as if he were studying me. “Then why don’t you ever use them? Wait—actually, I think I’ve figured it out.”
I stopped shading.
“Did you just add colour to a drawing of Tshabina?” he pressed, and I looked at him, and his eyes narrowed.
My sketches were always in black and white. I used pencil and paper only when drawing people. But with Sophie, I always slipped in colour, gradients, and light.
Only for her.
It was different whenever I drew Sophie. My hands seemed to move on their own, shading her with more life, more brilliance. Because Sophie wasn’t like anyone else, every time I looked at her, my heart raced at the beauty she radiated, and I couldn’t stand the thought of letting that beauty pass without sealing it onto the page.
It would be unbearable if I couldn’t capture her true light.
The result was always beautiful.
Not because ofmy drawing,but because ofher.
What I put on paper was beautiful because Sophie herself was beautiful.
Stillness wrapped around me. I didn’t answer because I didn’t know how to explain it to him.
