Perfect. I’m done with drawing, and oh, I fucking love it. It makes me feel powerful.

  To describe it, it’s a sketch of me standing in the rain, a smirk plastered across my face as a boy kneels before me. I don’t know whose face to draw, so instead, I drew the boy with his head bowed as water drips down his hair. Such a genius idea.

  But do I really not know who the boy is?

  Maybe I do…

  It’s funny really, the contrast between my sketches. One minute I’m drawing bloody figures and the next I’m drawing a cute little pretty boy.

  Pretty boy…

  No. No. It’s not him. It’s... it’s no one until I figure out.

  I feel the sudden urge to go to Nico’s room and check on him. I reach his room but stop just short of the doorknob due to a voice.

  His voice...

  He’s playing the guitar and singing something…

  I can’t make out the words as they’re muffled by the door. It sounds… soft, sweet, and beautiful. Damn. I never knew he was into music. The fact that he’s so good at it makes me want to throw open the door and listen to what he’s singing word by word. But I won’t—not yet. Not until I’m sure about what I feel. You know what? Fuck it. I’m going in his room. I enter with a smirk, making him jump slightly.

  “You play the guitar?”

  “Well, I-uhm… yeah, I do. The piano also.”

  “When the fuck did you learn all this?” I sit beside him on the bed—closer than I should—and suddenly, the boring introverted guy isn’t so boring anymore.

  “I learned it a few months ago,” he replies.

  The words spill out of my mouth before I can give them a second thought. “Can you play something for me?”

  Fuck it. I internally curse myself for telling Nico to do that. It sounds so desperate and needy. Ugh.

  His eyes light up slightly with excitement, as if he had wanted to do this all along.

  In moments, the guitar is in his hand as he plays the strings with proficient efficiency. Something’s up with this boy’s music. How can it make me feel so deeply when all I’ve ever done is deflect?

  Resting my elbows on my knees, I look up at him like a child witnessing something fascinating.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Your eyes hold a depth that the world could never know.

  But let me be the one to look at them for hours. Please God, let it be so.”

  ****************************************************************************************

  Well, that was quite a day. Even though my hair is a mess and my clothes rumpled up, I can’t bring myself to give a damn. But Nico’s condition is no better either. In fact, he looks worse than me. My pretty boy...

  I still have the tulips in hand. Somehow, even in their shabby state, they look beautiful. Maybe because he gave them to me.

  It’s around 2:30 a.m. and it’s drizzling as we walk back home. Considering how messy we are, I’m pretty sure with the rain Inez is going to think we made out. Not that I would mind though.

  The rain has picked up its pace slightly, which causes water to drip from his light brown hair. He looks just… damn. Like a fucking dream.

  Suddenly, I grab his hand, running to the rainy street.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asks, confusion evident but follows me nevertheless.

  “We have a few minutes left until it’s three hours. Might have a bit of fun,” I exclaim.

  Finding a big puddle nearby, I race and jump in it, splashing the water all over him.

  “You little—” I hear him mutter.

  “We need to go back to the hospital, Serene, what are you d—”

  Another splash. He walks over smiling like an idiot. Reaching out, he runs his fingers through my wet hair. He touches me reverently, as if I’m something sacred, then pulls back as if burnt. Even though I don’t want him to.

  He crouches down to pick up one of the tulips which fell in front of me. The drawing sketch which I made earlier flashes through my mind and I’m flabbergasted as I watch him bring it to life. I can’t look away. Fuck, God has a way with things, doesn’t he?

  My eyes follow his movements as he gets up. I’m sure he sees my shock as he asks, “Anything wrong?” I shake my head. “No. Let’s go back to the hospital. It has almost been three hours.”

  As we walk, I keep replaying the scene in my head again and again. Him—on his knees, in front of me.

  Surrendering. Yielding.

  I still haven’t drawn the face of the boy in my sketch.

  Maybe his face was the one I was meant to draw all along.