My Broken Nemesis

Colored sketches

His name was still there.

Noah.

Though looking faint now, smudged from sweat and time, but still visible on my palm like a temporary tattoo. I still had not wash it off— I didn’t want to.

I left it to fade on its own, little by little. All that’s left now, is a soft blur of what it used to be. Once sharp and clear, now, just a trace.

After that day under the tree, something shifted between us. We didn’t speak again. We only acknowledged each other whenever either of us passed by. It felt natural. Like we were slowly learning and accommodating the idea of each other — little at a time.

It only took simple gestures like a little wave from me, to him. And him responding by a little nodding of the head.

I started to notice him in places I hadn’t before, apart from the tree. He’d most times be at the far end of the library. Art room. Or alone at the basketball court, throwing some hoops.

And now, somehow, I was noticing myself too. The way my eyes searched for him in the classroom whenever he wasn’t in sight. The way I listened for his voice even when I knew he wasn’t around.

Anna teased me one afternoon, waving a bottle of Fanta in my face.

“You’ve been spacing out all week. What's his name?”

I laughed, but it felt like a reflex. “Whose name?”

“Please,” she said. “You think I haven’t noticed how your mood changes whenever we pass fine arts?”

I said nothing. She rolled her eyes saying. “I see the way you look at him whenever he enters the class too.”

“Just don’t fall too deep for someone who doesn’t talk about himself and has done nothing to clear up the stuff going round about him,” Jane said. She didn’t say it cruelly. But it stuck.

“Or someone who chooses to be by himself all the time. You know, that really paints him as a weirdo,”Anna added.

“It’s more like he has accepted it or that he is even guilty of them,” She continued.

I didn’t say anything. I just allowed them speak. Because somehow, they were right. And I should have listened.

I decided I was going to talk to him again. Even when I knew that I was probably going to be the only one speaking.

The few times he attended class, I haven’t seen him say a word to anybody else. He’d always sit at the right end of the building, listening with his keen eyes.

But at the same time, I felt he wasn’t paying close attention — he was trying to distract himself from his inner thoughts because he would always tug at the rubber band around his wrist, pulled it back, and let it snap against his skin.

He’d never flinch or react. Just kept staring ahead like the sting meant nothing — or maybe like it meant everything. And that he was trying to feel something real.

I was going to ask about him, get him to tell me more about himself. That is, if I’d be lucky enough to have him open up to me.

Class finally ended, on that fateful Thursday afternoon, the scrape of chairs and chatter filled the lecture hall. Anna and Jane were already packing up, slinging their bags over their shoulders.

“C’mon, Sarah,” Anna said, nudging my arm. “We’re heading to the café. Hurry up, before we are left with nowhere to sit.”

I hesitated, glancing at the door just in time to see Noah slip out with his sketchbook tucked under his arm.

“You’re coming, right?” Jane, who was two feet away, said impatiently.

“I’ll catch up later,” I said quickly, zipping my bag. “I just… want to stay behind and get a head start on some notes. Or maybe study for a bit.”

Anna gave me a knowing look, one brow raised. “Uh-huh. Study. Sure.”

Jane just shrugged. “Don’t overwork yourself,” she said, already halfway to the door.

“I won’t,” I lied with a small smile.

The moment they disappeared into the hallway, I slung my bag over my shoulder and quietly followed the direction Noah had gone.

My heart thudded louder with each step as I trailed him down the corridor, past the familiar classrooms.

I walked slowly behind him as he headed for the art room down the long corridor. I think he noticed I was behind him — he suddenly stopped and waited for me to catch up.

I did.

Unlike before, I’d freeze or pretend I wasn’t following, this time my steps were steadier — small but sure.

My nerves were still there, a little bit, fluttering underneath, but I didn’t let them slow me down.

I met him halfway on the corridor and we walked together in silence down the hallway to the art room.

He sat on a seat, placed his bag on the table and looked up at me. I chose the seat next to him, dropped my bag on the chair and rested my butt on the table, trying not to stare too hard.

He unzipped his bag and pulled out a brown covered sketchbook— different from the one he had the last time.

“How many of these do you have?” I asked.

He glanced at me, then at the book in his hands and replied, “Quite a few.”

“And you just bring a different one every time?”

Noah gave a small shrug with his shoulders, the corner of his mouth having that familiar twitch, like it almost wanted to smile. “Depends on what I feel for myself,” he answered.

I blinked hard. A little confused. “What you feel for yourself?” I repeated.

He nodded, flipping the sketchbook open. He had his fingers tracing the edge of the page, like it held more than just a paper.

“Some days,” he said quietly, “I hate the way things are. So I just try to look for the beauty and essence of life — even in the smallest detail.

And then there are times when… I don’t see anything at all, things just end up being the way they are. I put them all in here,” He concluded, tapping on his book with his index finger.

“Hmm… ok,” I said. Totally confused as to where he was getting at.

He brought another sketchbook from his bag —not the one I remembered from the last time. It was black covered. He turned open the first page. Then he lifted the sketchbook, placed it against his chest and turned it in my direction, to have a proper view.

It was the same tree he had once drawn in vivid detail —tall, alive and blooming. I recognized it because it looked just like it would in winter.

This time, it looked bare. The branches were brittle, the leaves and beautiful falling petals, gone. They were replaced by a kind of stillness that felt almost... dead.

“Like this,” he added, his eyes still on the page. “I drew this after you left that day — the way it felt.”

“What happened to it?” I asked, softly.

He leaned forward against the paint-stained table, arms crossed. His eyes never left the drawing.

“Nothing,” he said. “That’s the point.”

I turned to him. “What do you mean?”

Noah exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a sigh. “It was too good to stay that way. Nothing beautiful ever lasts. It just… fades.”

I didn’t say anything. I stared at the drawing, my heart was caught in my throat. It was the same tree, same spot. But this time… different.

I was still trying to figure out what he was getting at. He closed the sketchbook slowly, then looked at me and said. “I don't always choose what comes out. Sometimes it just… this is the only way I get to express myself.”

He returned the black covered sketchbook back to his bag, rested his back fully on the seat with outstretched legs. And hands fully stretched out on the table. He tapped his fingers lightly on the page, like he was deciding on what to draw.

“So which one is today, then? How do you feel? What do you plan on drawing in this one.” I asked, all at once, pointing at the brown-covered sketchbook on table.

He gave the smallest smile. “I’m not sure. I brought it hoping I’ll have a reason for it to stay open. I don’t know yet.” He said.

I wished I had never asked that question — I turned out to be the reason why that sketchbook stayed open.