The art club room was my safe place.
My bubble.
My zone.
Where paint stains were fashion statements and the only drama was whether the red was crimson or vermilion.
Until today.
Because today, Damian showed up.
Again.
Like a plot twist that refused to leave.
I looked up from my charcoal sketch and blinked. "Are you... in art club now?"
He leaned against the doorframe like he was auditioning for the role of "Mysterious Love Interest #1." and he nailed it.
"I'm not. But I was curious," he said, eyes flicking to the messy table. "Wanted to see what you look like when you're in your element."
I rolled my eyes, flustered. "Is that code for spying?"
"Maybe," he said, strolling in. "Or maybe I just like watching you draw."
EXCUSE ME????
I almost dropped my pencil. Almost. But I caught it—then immediately dropped it again.
Smooth.
He chuckled and glanced at the stack of papers beside me. My sketchbook sat half-open, taunting me.
NO.
NOT THAT.
NOT THE SACRED SKETCHBOOK.
"What's this?" he asked, reaching for it.
"NOPE—no no nope!" I lunged for it, but he was faster. Like a villain in a romcom who knew exactly how to ruin my life.
He opened it.
And everything went silent.
The world paused.
Because there, in black-and-white graphite, were portraits.
Of Aeron.
Of his eyes. His jawline. The way he looked at the sky when he thought no one was watching.
And... one of him smiling. A rare one. An imagined one.
I wanted the floor to eat me whole.
"I—I was practicing faces," I lied.
Damian didn't say anything.
Not for a moment.
Then—quietly—he said, "You don't draw like that when you're just practicing."
My throat closed.
He flipped the page. Another Aeron. Then one of me. Then one of us—together.
Imagined. Idealized. A version of us that didn't exist.
Damian finally looked up.
"You like him."
It wasn't a question.
I couldn't speak. My tongue had turned into a useless paperclip.
Damian closed the sketchbook and slid it back toward me. But his smile—his charm armor—was cracked.
"I get it," he said. Still soft. Still Damian. "You draw him like someone you can't stop seeing."
Silence.
Then he added, "But what if someone else wants to be seen, too?"
My heart shattered. Quietly. Like glass in a velvet box.
But before I could even process, the door creaked open.
And Aeron walked in.
Holding a forgotten hoodie. Mine.
"I—" he stopped mid-step. His eyes flicked to the table.
To me.
To Damian.
To the closed sketchbook between us.
Silence.
Tension so thick you could cut it with a palette knife.
"I didn't mean to interrupt," he said coldly.
"You didn't," I said, voice small.
Aeron turned.
And walked out.
Just. Like. That.
Gone.
End of Chapter 6