I opened my eyes to blinding white light.
The ceiling was too bright. Too clean. Hospital fluorescents humming overhead like angry insects.
My head throbbed-dull, insistent, like someone had taken a hammer to the inside of my skull and missed the nail every time.
I blinked.
Mia's face swam into view above me.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks streaked with mascara, hair a mess like she'd been running her hands through it for hours.
"Elliot?" Her voice cracked. "Are you okay?"
I swallowed. Throat dry as sandpaper.
"Yeah," I rasped. "I'm fine."
She let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes.
"You scared me so much, you idiot."
I tried to sit up. The room tilted. Pain spiked behind my right eye.
She pushed me gently back down.
"Easy. The doctor said you fainted. Concussion risk. They ran tests. You're… you're stable. Again."
Stable.
There was that word.
I hated it.
Mia wiped her face with her sleeve.
"Let's go home," she said quietly.
I didn't argue.
The drive back was quiet.
Mia's hands gripped the steering wheel too tight, knuckles white. The radio played something soft I didn't recognize-probably new since 2023. Snowflakes drifted past the windshield, lazy and silent.
She kept glancing at me.
Like she was afraid I'd disappear again.
When we pulled into my apartment building, she parked and turned off the engine.
"I can stay," she said immediately. "Just in case. If something happens-"
"I'll be fine," I told her.
She looked at me-really looked-searching for cracks.
"I'll call if I need anything," I added. "Promise."
She bit her lip.
Hard.
Then nodded once.
"Okay. But text me when you're inside. And if you feel dizzy, nauseous, anything-call me. Immediately."
"I will."
She walked me up the stairs anyway.
Carried my bag even though I told her not to.
At the door, she hugged me-quick, fierce, like she was afraid to let go.
"Lock the door," she said against my shoulder. "And rest."
"I will."
She pulled back, eyes still red.
"Night, bestie."
"Night, Mia."
The door clicked shut behind me.
I stood in the hallway for a long moment, listening to her footsteps fade down the stairs.
Then I locked the door.
The apartment was dark. Quiet.
I didn't turn on the lights.
Just stood there in the entryway, breathing.
Something felt… wrong.
Not the apartment.
Me.
Like there was a hole inside my chest where something used to be.
I walked to the couch, dropped onto it without taking off my coat.
Stared at the blank TV screen again.
The same restlessness from before crept back-deeper now, sharper.
I closed my eyes.
The darkness behind my lids wasn't empty.
It was full of something I couldn't reach.
Something that hurt.
Something that mattered.
The next morning I woke up to sunlight slicing through the blinds like knives.
My head still ached-dull, persistent-but it was bearable. I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember what normal felt like.
It didn't come.
Instead, something else did.
An itch.
Deep under my skin.
An urge so sudden and sharp it almost hurt.
I needed to paint.
Not doodle on a napkin.
Not sketch on my phone.
Paint.
On canvas.
With real brushes and thick color.
I'd never been an artist.
Not that I remembered, anyway.
I sat up slowly. The room spun once, then settled.
I made breakfast-simple: toast, coffee black as tar. I ate standing at the counter, staring at nothing.
The urge grew louder.
I grabbed my coat, keys, wallet.
The nearest mall was fifteen minutes away.
I drove carefully-still shaky from the hospital, still hearing doctors' warnings in my head.
Inside the art supply store, the smell hit me first: turpentine, wood, fresh canvas. It felt familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
I bought:
A large primed canvas, A set of acrylic tubes (but I barely looked at the colors), One tube of Mars Black-thick, matte, the deepest black they had, A wide flat brush, a fine liner brush, and a round detail brush, A palette knife for thick strokes, Odorless mineral spirits, A cheap folding easel.
The cashier asked if I was starting a project.
I just nodded.
Back home, I set everything up in the living room-pushed the coffee table aside, opened the windows to let the cold air cut through the stale smell.
I squeezed Mars Black onto the palette.
I didn't need the other colors.
The canvas demanded black.
Only black.
I loaded the wide flat brush with thick paint and dragged it across the white surface in broad, sweeping strokes. Shadows. Arches. Something crumbling. Something falling apart.
The hours blurred.
Black layered on black-thick, glossy in places, matte in others. Shapes emerged without thought: wings. Feathers. Dark eyes staring out from the chaos.
Knock knock.
I startled so hard the palette knife clattered to the floor.
I wiped my hands on my jeans-pointless, they were already black-and went to the door.
Mia.
She stood there grinning, holding two coffees in a carrier, eyes bright. "Hey, bestie! What are you doing?"
I managed a small smile. "Just painting."
Her brows shot up.
"Oh! That's unusual. So what are you painting? Don't tell me you're painting me?" She said it with mock excitement, bouncing on her toes.
I stepped aside. "No, you idiot. Come take a look."
She followed me into the living room.
Stopped dead when she saw the canvas.
Her smile faded in an instant.
The grin vanished.
Eyes widened.
She stared at the painting.
"Elliot… why are you painting this black bird?"
I looked at the canvas.
Looked at her.
"It's a raven, you stupid."