Tom's POV
"But something's bothering you. I can see it. It's bleeding into your work."
I stiffened in my seat, fingers curling into fists under the table. He wasn't wrong. Every line I'd drawn lately was her. Every fucking curve of the pencil led back to Imogen. To all the things I'm trying to ignore
But saying that out loud? No chance in hell.
"Nothing's bothering me," I lied, forcing my voice flat, cold. My eyes dropped to the canvas in front of me, but all I could see was her face—unfinished, faceless, haunting me anyway.
"Are you sure, Tom? Because…" Mr. Andris's voice trailed off as he pushed himself up from his stool. He walked to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled something out—a crumpled sheet of paper.
My gut twisted.
He smoothed it out against the desk, flattening the creases. And there it was. That fucking sketch. The faceless outline I swore I'd buried in the trash.
Imogen Storm.
I felt the blood drain from my face. My chest tightened, my pulse hammering in my ears. I dropped my gaze to the blank canvas in front of me—only it wasn't blank anymore. My pencil had moved without me even realizing, and staring back at me were two eyes. Hers. Wide, knowing, impossible to mistake.
How the fuck had I even drawn that? I didn't remember moving my hand. Didn't remember sketching a single line. But there she was again, bleeding out of me no matter how hard I tried to keep her out.
Mr. Andris opened his mouth, maybe to give me one of his thoughtful teacher speeches, maybe to pry a little deeper—but I couldn't. Not right now. Not ever.
I shoved my pencils back in the box, grabbed my bag off the floor, and stood so fast my chair screeched against the tile.
"Tom—" he started.
But I was already halfway to the door.
She ruined it for me.
Art was supposed to be mine. My escape. My one safe place to spill my head without judgment. And now it was poisoned—twisted into something I couldn't control, something that kept dragging her face out of me no matter how much I hated it.
Imogen Storm was fucking haunting me.
And I didn't know how to make her stop.
I'd had enough of school, enough of Tyler, enough of the bullshit. So I decided skip the rest of the day and head to the park. I Needed space. Needed to not feel like the walls were closing in on me.
But because the universe has a sick fucking sense of humor, someone else had the same idea.
Imogen.
She was standing off near the benches, phone pressed to her ear, her shoulders shaking like she was trying to hold herself together but failing. For a second, I thought maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. Imogen Storm didn't cry. Not in public. Not ever.
But then I heard it—the tiny catch in her voice, the sniffle she tried to swallow.
What the fuck?
"Imogen… are you okay?" I asked before I could stop myself, my feet already dragging me closer.
She stiffened, like she'd been caught doing something illegal. In one swift motion, she wiped at her face, smearing away the tears before turning to me. Her eyes were red, her cheeks reddened. And still, it hit me. She was fucking beautiful. Even when she cried. Maybe especially then.
"Yeah. I'm fine," she said quickly, voice tight, her gaze darting anywhere but at me.
I narrowed my eyes. "Are you sure?"
Her head snapped toward me, her voice sharp as broken glass. "Do I look okay to you?"
The words cut, raw and angry, and for a split second I wanted to snap right back. But the way her lips trembled after, the way her eyes widened like she already regretted it— it stopped me cold.
"Shit, sorry. I'm sorry," she whispered, shaking her head, guilt spilling into her voice. "It's not fair for me to snap at you like that."
I stared at her, my chest tight, my throat dry. She was cracking in front of me, piece by piece, and I didn't know whether to reach out— or to run before she pulled me under too.