But I couldn’t stop myself, and that was the worst part. I barely recognized who I was anymore.If there was a handbook for unhinged behavior, I was checking every box. Chasing boys.Bugging phones. Staring at a sleeping girl like I was auditioning for a restraining order.
Obsession wasn’t supposed to look like this.
And yet here I was.
Fucking pathetic.
She shifted slightly in her sleep. Her lip twitched. A breath escaped her nose like a sigh.
I was supposed to keep her safe, not drag her deeper into the kind of hell I lived in. But there I was, breathing heavier with every second I stood in that room, eyes locked on the soft skin of her shoulder, craving the taste of it,imagining my hands on her—
Fuck. I had to leave. Now.
I moved toward the door and that’s when I saw something sticking out from under the mattress.
A corner of paper.
Frowning, I pulled it out.
It was a sketch. Charcoal. A woman’s face.
Another corner peeked out beside it. Then another.
I crouched beside the bed, careful not to make a sound, and eased the whole stack out—thin sheets of rough paper, each one covered in her drawings. The moonlight caught the edges, casting faint shadows across the sketches.
I stared.
And something in my chest twisted.
There were portraits. Her father—drawn like a monster, all jagged lines and harsh shadows, rage carved into the tilt of his mouth. Her mother—ethereal, distant, floating like a ghost through a world she no longer touched. Her friend—sharp-boned, hollow-eyed, twitchy. Too thin. You could feel the tremor in her hand through the sketch alone.
Every stroke of her pencil told a story—and none of them were kind.
Except one.
My fingers trembled slightly as I flipped to the last drawing.
Me.
No horns. No harsh angles. No shadowed hate.
Just me. As she saw me.
The lines were smooth, precise. Strong jawline. A quiet softness in the mouth I’d never seen on my own face. She’d captured me like I was real—the quiet focus in my eyes, the scar on my jaw eased instead of brutal.
And it fucking broke me.
Because I didn’t deserve it. Not that version of me. Not the way she’d drawn me—like I wasn’t a walking weapon. Like I was the only thing in her life that wasn’t rotten to the core.
I wanted to look away. To put the drawing back and pretend I never saw it.Because she shouldn’t see me like this. Like someone good.
I’m not. I’m broken in all the wrong ways. Built for war. Raised in violence.And if she keeps seeing me like I’m her salvation, she’ll never survive what I bring with me. But that doesn’t mean I’ll let anyone else hurt her. Especially not after seeing this.
She’s not just mouthy. Not just spoiled.She’s drowning in silence. Drawing her way out of the pain.She is so much more than she let on. And now I’ve seen it, I’m part of it.
I shoved the drawings back under the mattress, carefully, like they were made of glass. Then I stood in the dark for a beat, heart pounding, jaw clenched.
And I left.
