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The cigarette burns between his fingers as his attention moves to my sketchbook, and I reach for it before he gets it before I do. But he’s faster and it’s already open on his lap.

“Wait,” I say, trying to get it back. He doesn’t look up and starts staring at it, one page after the other with care. A portrait without a face, a building missing half of its structure, and a hand that disappears halfway through the wrist. His hand.

My stomach drops when his eyes fix the compass tattoo.

“You made it look better,” he says as if it wasn’t already humiliating enough for him to stumble upon this stupid sketch.

I blink, and reply, “What?”

His thumb rests against the page and he doesn’t even look confused. “The tattoo.”

I look away, focusing on Blue’s presence and not be even more embarrassed because he’s not making a big deal out of it.

“I didn’t mean to draw that.”

“I know.” He looks back at the pages, the unfinished sketches everywhere and finally looks back at me as he takes another drag of his cigarette. “You never finish them.”

I shrug, avoiding meeting his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“You do.”

I look at him this time, trying to figure out how he is so cold and warm at the same time. “I lost interest.”

“No,” he answers quickly.

“You seem very confident about this,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

“I am actually,” he adds as his eyes drop back to the sketchbook. “People who lose interest don’t spend months returning to the same thing.”

I follow his gaze at all those beginnings, all those abandoned versions of things I wanted to finish and the pressure in my chest loosens a bit. “I haven’t been able to complete anything in a long time.

“How long?”

I hesitate before exhaling and reply, “Years.” It sounds worse now that I said it. “I can start something, I can see it clearly in my head and almost get there. Then the moment it’s close to being done, I just…” I shake my head and continue. “It disappears.”

He leans back, looking toward the ocean, the sketchbook still open on the page where his hand is engraved in ink.

“Bring it tomorrow,” he finally says.

I frown and tilt my head in confusion, “My sketchbook?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His blue ocean eyes meet mine as they turn cold again. “Because I’m curious whether you’re actually incapable of finishing something or if you’ve simply convinced yourself you are.”

“I’ve been trying for year,” I repeat as if it wasn’t clear enough that it will never change.

“And you’ve been trying the same way for years.” I don’t answer, because he’s right. He looks at it again and continues, “You sit alone, overthinking every line. Then you judge it before it even has the chance to become anything.”

I run my thumb over the edge of the cover as I close it shut. “And what exactly is your solution?”

A faint smile appears on his lips. “You’re going to be distracted by me,” he starts. “We’ll talk and you’ll draw. You’ll stop listening to every thought telling you that the shape is wrong or that it’s not good enough.” He shrugs slightly as he finishes his cigarette. “Art isn’t supposed to be calculated, it’s supposed to happen.”

Then he gets to his feet, and looks down at me. “Nice drawing, Miss Vitelli.”

I look at him disappear as he walks back to the building and I whisper a small, “thank you…”