The art of falling

the signature

The sketch remained in my bag, its weight heavier than textbooks, heavier than reason. I walked briskly across campus, the evening air cool against my skin, the scent of damp leaves clinging to my boots. My hand trembled on the dorm key as I unlocked my door.

Inside, the silence was oppressive. The canvases hanging on the walls felt colder than ever, as though their painted eyes were watching me.

I sat on the edge of my bed and pulled out the torn page again. My gaze traced the delicate lines, the haunting eyes, the subtle shading that seemed to breathe life into the girl’s face. My face. The solitary *W* at the corner mocked me, daring me to uncover its meaning.

My finger brushed the rough texture of the graphite. Who was *W*? And why did their style mirror Kieran’s so closely?

I shoved the sketch back into my bag before I could talk myself into ripping it apart.

The next morning, I arrived at the studio early. Too early. The overhead lights hummed softly, casting pale yellow halos across the room. I set up my easel and let my pencil drag across the paper, trying to silence the storm in my head.

Minutes later, the door creaked open. Kieran.

Charcoal-gray sweater, sleeves pushed up, tattoos peeking from beneath the fabric. He looked unbothered, composed as if nothing in the world could rattle him.

“Morning,” he said, his voice calm, carrying too easily in the stillness.

“Morning,” I whispered, trying not to sound guilty, like the sketch was a secret I’d stolen from him.

We worked in silence for a while. The only sounds were the drag of charcoal and the occasional creak of the floorboards. I stole glances at him: the way his jaw tightened in concentration, the curve of his hand as it guided each stroke.

Finally, I forced myself to speak. “Your style… it’s unique.”

He glanced up briefly. “Thanks.”

“Do you ever sign your work with just a letter?”

His hand stilled. A flicker barely there crossed his face. Then, too smoothly: “Sometimes. Why?”

My throat dried. “Just curious.”

He studied me a second longer than felt comfortable. Then he returned to his drawing without another word.

By the end of the session, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I dug into my bag and unfolded the sketch.

The moment his eyes landed on it, his expression changed. The faint color in his face drained, his jaw tightening.

“Where did you get that?” His voice was low, but sharp, edged with something that didn’t belong in daylight.

I hesitated. “I… found it. In the studio.”

He moved quickly, snatching the paper from my hand like it was a live weapon. His knuckles whitened around the edges of the page.

“Kieran—”

He shoved it into his bag and stood, his chair screeching against the floor. “You shouldn’t have this.”

“But why—”

“Goodnight, Aria.” His tone was final, clipped. And then he was gone, the door slamming shut in his wake.

I sat frozen. But what he didn’t know was that before handing it over, I had snapped a picture of the sketch. Proof.

Proof he didn’t want me to have.

The next day in lecture, my body was present but my mind wasn’t. Kieran’s absence hollowed the room. My professor’s words dissolved into static, my pencil useless in my hand. All I could see was his face when he saw the drawing. That flicker of raw fear, so unlike him.

As the room emptied, Zara linked her arm through mine. “Earth to Aria. You look like you’re about to faint.”

I debated brushing it off. Instead, I whispered, “What do you know about Kieran?”

She stopped walking, eyes bright with mischief. “Ohhh. You like him.”

“No,” I said too fast, heat rushing to my face. “I just… he’s mysterious.”

“And hot,” she teased. “Don’t forget that.”

I tried not to smile. Failed.

But when I pressed further, asked about sketches signed *W*, her playfulness vanished. She pulled me to a bench beneath a sycamore tree, her voice dropping low.

She told me about his first year. About Tiffany Claire the girl who had thrown herself at him, only to vanish without a trace. About the rumors, the obsession, the night of her disappearance. About the whispers of the signature *W* that began appearing on abandoned works in Studio B.

By the time she finished, my blood was ice.

I showed her the sketch. Her gasp cut through the air.

“Aria, this is his work. But… that’s you.”

The leaves rustled like warning whispers.

“Why would he draw me before we met?” I asked, my voice breaking, the words trembling out like they were made of glass.

Zara’s mouth opened, then closed. She had no answer. Her silence was heavier than words.

That’s when my phone buzzed.

A sharp vibration against my palm.

I glanced down. Unknown Number.

A chill rippled across my skin. “Weird,” I muttered, forcing a small laugh I didn’t feel. Zara leaned closer, peering at the screen, her brows knitting.

“You gonna answer it?”

I hesitated. Then, almost against my own will, I pressed accept and lifted it to my ear.

At first—nothing. Just static. A low crackle, like a storm caught between wires.

“Hello?” My voice was unsteady.

The static shifted, grew louder, filling my head. Then it broke, splintering into words.

A voice. Distorted. Low. So warped it didn’t sound human.

“You’re not safe around him.”

The words slithered through me, cold and sharp, lodging deep in my chest.

I froze. My heart stopped, then stumbled painfully back into rhythm.

“Who is this?” I demanded, though my voice cracked, betraying me. My breath fogged in the chilly air though it wasn’t that cold.

Silence.

Then—click.

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone, my fingers numb. My own reflection stared back from the black screen pale, wide-eyed, fragile.

“What is it? Aria?” Zara’s voice was tight now, her earlier playfulness gone. She reached for my arm, grounding me, but her touch barely registered.

I forced the words out, my throat dry. “They… they said I’m not safe. Around him.”

Her eyes widened. “Him? Kieran?”

I nodded, the motion mechanical, my blood running cold, the echo of that warped voice still scraping against my ears like broken glass.

The world felt suddenly sharper the crunch of leaves, the whisper of branches above us, even the sound of my pulse drumming in my skull.

Zara squeezed my arm. “Aria… you don’t think…”

I shook my head quickly, though I wasn’t sure if I was denying it for her sake or mine.

But deep inside, a single thought lodged like a thorn, refusing to let go.

Someone was watching me.

And they knew about Kieran.

Cliffhanger:

My phone vibrated again. Another message.

A photo.

Me.

Taken through my dorm window last night.

And at the bottom, the same single letter, smudged in graphite:

**W.**