Page 57 of Paper Thin Love

Mrs. Jones holds the book and gazes at my messed-up page, her eyes soft with understanding.“I think it’s passionate. Is passion a mistake?” she questions me gently.

I can’t help but glance at Dash, feeling a mix of frustration and confusion at his relentless affection for trying to fix me.

Mrs. Jones flips to my page with the actual still life.“It’s good,” she nods,“but you can work more on the transition of the shading and creating different tones.” She points to the bottom of the circle I drew.“If you made more contrast, it would have more depth, making the circle look more rounded. If we want to get deeper and more real, we have to add more effort and pressure; push your pencil harder.”

Why does it feel like she’s not referring to the art anymore?

“Sorry,” I mutter, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“No apologies, Mila. Art isn’t easy to grade. It’s not about how well you recreate the image. It’s about showing others how you interpret it. And you know what I think?” She flips back to the next page, covered in black lines.“I think realism might not be your cup of tea. In my opinion, you might find more pleasure in abstraction.

I shake my head, confused.“What do you mean?”

“Abstract art isn’t about how easily someone else can reproduce it. Everyone can cover a canvas in paint or color a page. It’s about heart and soul.” She touches her chest, then sets my sketch pad down.“It’s about showing your emotions and making others feel them, evoking an emotional response. Abstraction is about separating yourself from society’s standards. It’s about unseen emotions. The feelings we often try to hide are those we can’t express with words. I’ll email you some artists to study. For homework, I just want you to see if you connect with any. Tomorrow, we can try something new. We will find what speaks to you, Mila. Don’t worry.”

Her kindness is so intense that it’s hard to swallow.

“Dash,” she edges closer to him,“let’s see how your artwork turned out.”

He hands her the pad, his face turning colder than his erect walls.Good, the devil will be judged, just like me.I grin, but it dies when I see Mrs. Jones’s eyes widen as she looks at his work.

Don’t tell me he’s skilled in art, as well.

The teacher looks down at Dash, but he keeps his eyes fixated on some invisible dot ahead.

“Well, I’d say you are the opposite of Mila, Dash. Realism is your strong suit, but does it make you happy?” She slowly hands the sketch pad back to him. I find myself leaning closer, hoping to get a look, but he hugs it to his chest.

“Happiness doesn’t matter in my world, Mrs. Jones,” he growls so coldly that it has our teacher stepping back.

“This class can help you too, Dash, if you’d let it,” she gently replies before turning away.

I lick my lips, my heart pounding.“Did you tell her?”

He grabs his pad and looks at the page I can’t see.“Did I tell her you like to cut yourself?”

“Shh!” I snap, scooting my chair closer.“And I’m not cutting myself. It’s a simple prick of a needle.”

“Baby steps, Mila. Eventually, you’ll learn to walk and then run. One day, you’ll cut too deep trying to feel and kill yourself by mistake.”

I curl my toes, feeling the need to pounce on him and attack. The bell rings, but I’m not going to let him escape so easily. Reaching out, I grab his book. Let’s see what’s so impressive it made our teacher’s eyes widen.

He leans back in his chair, allowing me to take my prize. I gasp as I look at the paper. It’s not the still life of shapes he drew. My smile dies faster and more painfully than an astronaut whose spacesuit failed. Everything goes icy, like the endless expanse of uncharted space.

I look up at Dash, meeting his cold, now dead eyes.“Why did you draw this?” I can barely whisper. Looking back down, my eyes roam over all the fine details. He’s captured everything.

He’s stolen me.

Not only did he sketch me, but he portrayed my face with such precision it felt as though he had etched my very essence onto that sheet of paper, leaving me utterly astonished and deeply moved by his talent.

He pushes back and stands, then snatches his book back from my numb hands.

“Why, Dash?” I state more firmly as I stand, too. I grab his crutch before he can take it and hold it behind my back. He raises a brow, leaning forward so close that if I sway slightly, our lips will touch.

“Because I can. Because I own you.” He shoves his book into his backpack, then reaches around me and grabs his crutch.

“Who taught you how to draw?” I ask, pleading.

He takes one step and looks over his shoulder at me as if I’m an annoying pebble in his shoe, hindering his next step.“My mother was an artist,” he replies, showing the smallest slip of emotion. Then he leaves the room as if he hadn’t just revealed a secret that has caused my heart to shatter.

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