brushstrokes between us
1119 Words
I woke up with sunlight bleeding through the blinds, strips of gold cutting across my blanket. But warmth wasn’t what startled me awake, it was the weight of last night still pressing against my chest.
Kieran’s voice lingered in my ears, soft and raw.
I stretched, rolled over, and stared at the sketchbook lying half-open beside me on the bed. The edges of the page curled slightly, the pencil smudges now part of my sheets. I should’ve closed it, hidden it away like every other feeling I tried to pretend I didn’t have. But there he was his hand over mine, captured in graphite like it belonged there.
I stared at it for a long time.
What was I doing?
There was a knock at the door, soft, hesitant.
I pulled on a hoodie, still in my shorts from last night, and cracked the door open. Zara stood there, her hair piled into a messy bun, one hand holding a protein bar and the other clutching her sketchpad.
“Are you alive?” she said, half-grinning. “Or are you finally becoming one of your paintings?”
I laughed more out of relief than amusement and let her in.
“I heard about your little coffee shop rendezvous,” she teased, kicking off her sandals and jumping onto my bed like she lived there. “And you didn’t call me after? Rude.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I muttered, tossing my hair into a loose braid. “We just talked.”
“Mmm.” She eyed me over her granola bar. “So what did he say?”
I hesitated. “He told me about Tiffany.”
Zara stopped chewing.
“He said she made them both drunk. Tried to seduce him. Locked the door,” I said slowly, gauging her reaction. “But he stopped her. She broke down. Told him she was bipolar, had been assaulted before. That she just wanted someone to see her.”
Zara nodded slowly. “That… actually tracks. Tiffany always had that look like she was carrying a storm around. Loud one second, ghost the next.”
I wrapped my arms around myself. “He said she left through the window. That he didn’t tell anyone because she begged him not to.”
Zara was quiet for a moment. “Do you believe him?”
The question sat heavy in the air between us.
I didn’t know. But I wanted to.
“I think I do,” I whispered.
Zara gave me a long look. “You’ve got it bad.”
I didn’t answer.
Later that afternoon, we met again in Studio B. The smell of turpentine had soaked into the walls. Kieran was already there when I arrived, leaning over a fresh canvas, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Today, he wore a dark green shirt, slightly paint-streaked, and black jeans. His hair was messier than usual, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. There was something about the way he moved,calm, focused that made the air hum.
“Hey,” he said without looking up.
“Hey,” I replied, settling beside him, unzipping my kit.
We painted in silence for a while, the only sounds were the scratch of pencil on canvas and the occasional creak of the stool. But the silence felt different now like the beginning of a song rather than the end of a sentence.
At some point, he nudged my elbow. “You’ve been working on hands lately?”
I stiffened. “Maybe.”
His eyes flicked toward me, curious. “They’re good.”
“Thanks.”
I bit my lip and tried not to glance at my sketchbook still zipped inside my bag.
He picked up a palette knife and started working deeper into the paint, the edge scraping and dragging through layers of color like he was cutting into memory itself.
“You draw?” he asked suddenly.
My heart jumped. “Yeah.”
“You ever gonna show me?”
“Maybe.”
He grinned. “That’s fair.”
The tension between us had softened into something strange and warm. I couldn’t tell if it was attraction or understanding or something more complicated but it was pulling me closer every time he spoke, every time he smiled like he knew something I didn’t.
When the sun started to set, we packed our things. I carried my bag over my shoulder, hesitating at the door.
“Kieran,” I said, turning.
He looked up.
“I’m glad you told me the truth.”
His mouth lifted into a quiet smile. “Me too.”
And then he said something I wasn’t expecting.
“I found one of your sketches.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. “What?”
“On the desk. Yesterday. A hand sketch—really good.”
He paused, searching my face.
“I knew it was yours. You don’t sign either.”
I swallowed, my voice caught somewhere between panic and hope. “Did you keep it?”
He nodded. “It’s in my notebook.”
There was a long, charged pause.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked.
His smile faded, and his voice dropped an octave. “Because I liked that it felt like a secret.”
Outside, the hallway light flickered.
Inside, my world tilted.
That night, I couldn’t draw.
I lay in bed, fingers itching to sketch, but nothing came. Instead, I stared at the ceiling, thinking about his words. His notebook. My secret.
At some point past midnight, I got up and padded across the room. The air was thick and silent, my breath loud in my ears. I pulled my sketchbook out of my bag, flipped to the drawing of his hand—and tore it out.
I folded it once. Then twice.
And slid it into my desk drawer.
Just as I closed it, my phone buzzed.
A number I didn’t recognize.
**Unknown:** *Did he tell you everything?*
My throat dried.
**Unknown:** *If he didn’t, I will.*
Attached was a photo.
My sketch.
The one I had just hidden.
Taken from outside my window.
Cliffhanger: My hands trembled as I stared at the image.
The curtains had been drawn. My lights dimmed. There was no way anyone should have seen inside.
And yet—there it was. My sketch, mid-fold.
A second buzz.
Unknown: You think you’re seeing him clearly. But he’s the one drawing the lines.
I slammed the phone face-down, breathing hard.
Outside, the wind howled. A branch scraped across the window like a claw.
I didn’t sleep that night.
And the next morning, Kieran wasn’t in class.
He was missing.
- Writer
