Chapter Three: The Sketch
513 Words
The art room smelled like acrylic paint and dreams — that was what Aria always said.
It was her favorite place in Crestwood High: quiet, bright, and filled with the kind of silence that made her thoughts feel lighter.
She sat by the window that afternoon, paint smudges on her fingers and streaks of blue on her cheek. Her canvas was half-finished — a field of sunflowers that looked happier than she felt.
Across the room, Taylor sat hunched over his sketchbook. His pencil moved in quick, confident strokes. He didn’t notice her watching, but she noticed everything.
The way his brows furrowed when he concentrated.
The way he smiled faintly every time the lines on the paper matched what was in his mind.
Aria hesitated for a moment, then walked over, her heart oddly unsteady.
“Hey,” she said softly.
Taylor looked up, surprised. “Hey. You need something?”
“Maybe.” She smiled, tilting her head. “Can you draw me?”
He froze, pencil midair. “You?”
“Yeah. You’re good, Taylor. And I’ve never had anyone sketch me before. You could make me look… I don’t know, less ordinary.”
He chuckled nervously. “You? Ordinary? Please.”
“Then do it,” she said, folding her arms. “Draw me.”
Taylor hesitated, glancing down at his sketchbook. “I—I don’t think I can.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just… complicated.”
Aria frowned. “It’s a drawing, not rocket science.”
He met her eyes briefly — and in that fleeting look, she saw something. Guilt? Fear?
“Sorry, Aria,” he said finally, his voice low. “Maybe another time.”
She laughed it off, but it stung. “You’re weird, you know that?”
“I get that a lot,” he murmured.
---
Later that week, Aria was helping Ms. Chen organize art portfolios when she saw it.
A familiar sketchbook lay half-open on the table. She wasn’t snooping — not really — but the page caught her attention immediately.
It was a portrait.
Soft pencil shading, gentle curves, eyes full of mischief.
But it wasn’t her face.
It was Selly’s.
Aria stared at it, her heart sinking slowly, quietly — like a boat slipping beneath still water.
Selly’s smile had been captured perfectly. Every line, every strand of hair, every tiny detail that only someone who looked too closely could know.
Her hands trembled as she shut the book.
Gold found her moments later by the lockers, pale and quiet. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Aria said flatly. “Just realized artists draw what they love, I guess.”
---
That night, she painted until her hands hurt.
But no matter how many colors she used, the only thing she saw in the strokes was gray.
And somewhere across town, Taylor lay in bed staring at the same sketch — Selly’s face staring back at him — wondering why the drawing didn’t make him feel proud.
It only made him feel guilty
- Writer
