My Broken Nemesis

Inked letters

I kept the sketchbook. Not because I meant to, but because I didn’t know what else to do.

I couldn’t just leave it there. Not after what I saw. Not after realizing that he’d been watching me long before I admitted to watching him.

For two days, I carried it around in my bag like a secret.

Of course I didn’t tell my friends about this — of my close-enough encounter with ‘the new guy.’ No one had to know. It became my little secret.

I didn’t open it again — not because I wasn’t tempted to, but because I didn’t want to lose the strange kind of intimacy that first look gave me.

It wasn’t just a drawing. It was a window. into which he saw me. Not as someone curious, but something more. He saw through me at that first glance from the café and I didn’t like it.

But on the third day, I knew I couldn’t keep it. I have held on to it for too long. I made up my mind to return it.

It was after class. The sun was already dipping low, painting the campus golden. I sighted him from afar before he saw me — sitting again under the same tree, earphones in, tapping his pencil against his knee.

He had a new sketchbook, could be an old one, but it was a different one — Because he left his previous one for me and it was right there in my hands.

I held it very close, against my chest, with both hands like a baby. I didn’t want to let go.

I walked over before I could think too much. He didn’t look up until I was almost in front of him.

“I believe this belongs to you,” I said, holding out the sketchbook. He stared at it for a second. No surprise. No smirk. Just that quiet unreadable look he always wore.

He then took the earphones out and said,

“You looked.”

It wasn’t a question, neither was it an accusation. He just said it firmly. That was the first time hearing his voice. I hadn’t imagined his voice to sound like that — deeper than I expected, calm and unhurried.

The kind that didn’t need to be loud to hold one’s attention. So it was, just enough to make me speechless for a second.

I nodded, unsure whether to apologize. I didn’t even know why or how.

He took the book from me, flipped through the pages and looked at them like it didn’t matter — like I hadn’t seen something raw and intentional inside. Like he wasn’t the one who drew them.

Then he stretched out his hand, handed it back to me, and said “Keep it.”

“I didn’t mean to pry. I just…” I said quietly. “You just dropped it and left.” I concluded.

His eyes flicked to mine. “You didn’t,” he said steady.

There was a pause. It was long enough for either of us to start walking away. But none did. The tension within me grew.

It took guts, but I wanted to keep the conversation going. Even with his few words. Short and to the point.

That was how brave I had been — in a way propelled by curiosity. In a reckless way, even when it didn’t make sense to be.

I realized his hands were still out holding the sketchbook, I quickly reached it for it and said “You sure?” He didn’t reply — just gently handed it over to me.

“You’re... really good,” I said, finally. “At drawing. You see things people don’t. They’re so detailed and beautiful,” I added.

His lips twitched, almost like a smile. Not quite, but enough to show the compliment had landed. He didn’t say thank you. Not that I was expecting him to, he didn’t have to. The flicker in his expression had said it all.

I noticed things I probably shouldn’t. His little reaction warmed me up inside — it felt like I was finally getting a breakthrough. It was small. But it was enough.

There was silence again. The comfortable kind. The kind that asked to be filled only if you really had something to say.

“I’ve never had someone draw me before,” I said finally. “At least not without me knowing.” I continued, getting a little too comfortable.

“Well, I have very keen eyes and you never looked like you needed to be noticed,” he said. “You would always hide in plain sight.”

“But you noticed anyway? You saw me — enough to get everything detailed right here. I said tapping the book.”

He shrugged. “Hard not to. You don’t talk like the others.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“You listen and you are observant,” He replied.

I didn’t know what to say to that. No one had ever said that to me before. I have never been a case study before. Not like it mattered anyway.

He could read me, even from afar, like I was words from a nursery rhyme book and the writings didn’t matter. They were just inscribed in the memory.

“I don’t even know your name,” I said after a quick beat.

He hesitated, then reached into his bag and pulled out a marker. He took my hand — gently pulling me closer and wrote on my palm in slanted, neat letters:

Noah.

His touch was brief. But my skin burned long after he let go. It left an invisible imprint only I could feel.

“Now you know,” he said, tossing the marker back into his bag. “And now, you can stop watching from a distance.”

“I don’t bite.”

I gave him a soft, almost embarrassed smile. “No promises.”

He smiled back — for real this time. Small. Lopsided but honest.

“What about the piece you ripped out, why did you do that?” I asked. He put his earphones back in and looked away, returning to his sketch.

This time, I was close enough to see. It was the tree and its pile of fallen petals. He was close to finishing it.

He didn’t say a word again. Neither did I.

I walked off slowly, with the sketchbook, holding it with both hands, feeling the name inked into my palm like a note I wasn’t supposed to forget.

“Noah.” I said out loud, in one breath.

Now I had a name. But I still didn’t know who he really was. And now I couldn’t stop wanting to know what else he was made of, that most of us missed.

He said he doesn’t bite, that was like an invitation. Right? A subtle way of telling me that I didn’t need to be hesitant about approaching him anymore.

At the time, I didn’t think much about it. But later, as I walked home, I could hear the words echoing in my head.

“I don’t bite.” It sounded harmless. Almost teasing.

And those three words brought my guards down completely and I threw caution to the wind.

And it turned out that, he didn’t just bite. He sank in me — deeper than teeth ever could.