Interlude: Lines That Cross
301 Words
The art club met every Thursday after school.
By now, everyone knew Taylor and Selly always left together.
Sometimes they laughed too loudly. Sometimes they shared the same set of pencils, even though there were plenty to go around.
Aria told herself it didn’t matter.
But it did.
One afternoon, she walked past the studio door and paused. Inside, Taylor sat on the floor, sketchbook open, and Selly beside him — her head resting lightly on his shoulder as she watched him draw.
“Your shading’s getting so good,” Selly murmured. “You make me look prettier than I am.”
Taylor smiled faintly. “You don’t need my drawing to look pretty, Sel.”
She laughed, brushing her hair back. “Flattery won’t make me stop stealing your pencils.”
Aria didn’t mean to linger, but she couldn’t move.
The laughter—the closeness—it felt like someone had taken her unfinished painting and smudged it, right through the middle.
When Selly finally noticed her in the doorway, she smiled sweetly. “Hey, Aria! Want to join us?”
Aria forced a small smile. “No, I was just passing by.”
Her voice came out steady, but her hands were trembling.
Taylor’s eyes met hers for half a second—just long enough for her to see that flicker of guilt again.
She left before either of them could say another word.
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That night, Aria sat in her room sketching a faceless girl standing in the rain. Around the girl, faint pencil lines hinted at two shadows — one reaching for her, and one walking away.
She stared at the drawing for a long time, then closed her book and whispered,
> “I think I’m losing him… and he was never even mine.”
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- Writer
