My Broken Nemesis

Pencil Art

Just then, I saw as he gently reached out to his pencil that had fallen to the ground. He stretched his hand over to the ground to pick it up to continue.

Then it happened again.

He paused — It was as if he knew I was there, he could feel my presence, the way sometimes people feel the heat or warmth from the sun even with their eyes closed.

He looked up. Right at me. Again.

That same silent moment stretched between us, like the kind that says more than words ever could. Each, waiting for the other to flinch first.

I didn’t move. Neither did he.

I lingered after our eyes lock. I was caught. But instead of looking away I thought maybe for once, that I surprise myself.

I walked slowly towards him, each step uncertain but it felt like I was being pulled — like a magnet — towards him. Why are you always by yourself? Why won’t you talk to anyone?

The question repeated in my head, tangled with a hundred others that I didn’t know how to start asking. The air felt colder as I got closer. I was still rehearsing my question, steadying my nerves.

My heartbeat grew louder, warning me that this wasn’t just about a question, but the start of something I might regret.

But as I edged nearer, mind fully made up, he, without a word — picked up the pencil from his sketchbook and slipped it behind his ear. His fingers lingered on the edge, like he was deciding on something. Then he tore a piece from the sketchbook.

He stood. Dusted himself off.

And just as he turned to walk away, he dropped the sketchbook on the bench and left with the torn piece.

No glance back. No comment. He just left it there, like it didn’t mean anything. Deliberately—like he wanted me to see what he had been drawing.

But why did he tear that page out?

I watched him as he walked around the corner—not in any hurry, just gliding across the interlocked floor like he didn’t have a care in the world. He didn’t seem like he was going to come back. He didn’t even try to look back.

I moved toward the bench, more curious than ever. The sketchbook laid there like an invitation. I hesitated, then reached for it.

I opened it.

The first page stopped me cold.

It was me.

I was sitting in the café. ‘Our first non-encounter’. The day his gaze held mine. My chin was propped in my hand. My eyebrows were slightly furrowed, like I was thinking too hard.

I flipped to the next page.

Me again—this time with more detail. I was outside class, laughing with Anna. We had just finish our lunch. My head was tilted back, he even caught the gentle wind in my hair as they fell loosely around my shoulders.

A third page — a missing page, I could see the rough edges, leaving obvious traces of what had once been there.

The next page was blank, but not untouched. The faint pencil marks of what had been drawn above it showed. But it wasn’t pronounced.

The part that was torn out... I could see that it was half-finished. Just enough to recognize what it was. They looked like the outline of an eye —my eyes.

I waited, half of me convinced he’d return in the next second and say it was a mistake. But he didn’t. He was already far gone. He kept walking, with his hands in his pockets, with the wind teasing the edge of his jacket.

These wasn’t just a drawing—it was a moment. A frozen second I didn’t know someone else had seen.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

I wasn’t the only one watching. He hadn’t just noticed me. He had studied me. Watched me the same way I’d been watching him. The same way I thought I’d been careful not to be noticed.

He left behind a sketchbook. But what I picked up was something else entirely—proof that I wasn’t invisible.

Not to him.