Page 3 of Bound to Him

The scholarship—my beacon of hope. Full tuition to complete my art degree and a chance to study in New York for a semester. It would change everything, open doors I can barely imagine.

"You'll get it," Emma says with surprisingconviction. "You're the best artist in that whole school."

Her confidence warms me. "Thanks, Em."

After breakfast, I gather my supplies: sketchbook, charcoals, portfolio case. The university is only a twenty-minute walk from our house, one of the few perks of living in a small town. The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of autumn leaves and woodsmoke. I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with possibility.

As I walk, I mentally review my project—a series of interconnected portraits representing family bonds. Not my actual family—that would be too obvious—but an idealized version, the kind of family where fathers stay for breakfast and mothers don't cry when they think no one is watching.

The campus is small by university standards, just a handful of buildings surrounding a central green space. I make my way to the art building, a repurposed warehouse with enormous windows and exposed brick walls. It smells of turpentine, clay, and coffee. Home, in other words.

Professor Wilkins is already in the studio, her gray hair escaping from a loose bun. She wears a paint-splattered apron over a simple black dress, her only concession to professional attire.

"Hannah," she greets me, peering over herround glasses. "Eager as always. Your workspace is ready."

My "workspace" is just a corner near the window, but it's mine for the semester. My half-finished project sits on an easel, covered with a cloth to protect it from dust and prying eyes. I remove the cloth carefully, revealing my work.

The central portrait—a mother figure with arms outstretched—is nearly complete. The surrounding smaller portraits need refinement, connections strengthened through color and line. I set my supplies down and lose myself in the work.

Hours pass unnoticed. This is what I love about art. The way time loses meaning, the world narrowing to the space between my fingers and the canvas. Each stroke brings the image closer to the vision in my head, each blend of color a small victory.

"That's coming along beautifully," Professor Wilkins says, appearing at my shoulder. I jump slightly; I hadn't heard her approach.

"Thank you," I say, stepping back to assess my progress. "I'm trying to capture the way family members orbit each other, connected but separate."

She nods, understanding without need for further explanation. That's why she's my favoriteprofessor—she sees what I'm trying to do, even when I can't fully articulate it.

"The scholarship committee will be impressed," she says. "But remember, technical skill is only part of what they're looking for. They want to see your unique perspective, your voice."

I nod, though anxiety flutters in my chest. My "unique perspective" feels mundane, ordinary. I'm just a girl from a small town, with small town problems and small town dreams. What could I possibly show the committee that they haven't seen before?

As if reading my thoughts, Professor Wilkins adds, "Don't underestimate your experiences, Hannah. They shape your art in ways you might not recognize yet."

The lunch bell rings, and students begin to pack up their supplies. I cover my project again, reluctant to leave it unfinished.

"Go eat," Professor Wilkins urges. "The work will wait."

The campus cafeteria offers limited options, none particularly appealing. I choose a sad-looking sandwich and an apple, finding a seat by the window. As I eat, I sketch idly in my notebook—random faces, hands, eyes. Drawing is as natural as breathing to me, a way of processing the world.

A strange feeling creeps up my spine—thesensation of being watched. I glance around, but no one is paying me any attention. The feeling persists, though, an itch between my shoulder blades that I can't quite reach.

After lunch, I have art history, a required course that I enjoy more than I expected to. Today we're studying the Renaissance, the professor's slides showing works by masters I've admired since childhood. I take detailed notes, drawing small copies of the paintings in the margins of my notebook.

When classes end for the day, I return to the studio to work on my project for another hour. The late afternoon light streaks through the windows, perfect for assessing color accuracy. I lose myself in the details, adding depth to the eyes of my subjects, refining the lines of connection between them.

By the time I pack up, the campus is quiet, most students already gone for the day. The walk home feels longer somehow, my portfolio case heavy against my side. That strange feeling returns, eyes on my back, watching, waiting. I quicken my pace, telling myself I'm being ridiculous.

Our house comes into view, a modest two-story with peeling paint and a slightly sagging porch. It's nothing special, but it's home. The lightsare on in the kitchen, and I can see Mom moving about, preparing dinner.

Inside, the house smells of garlic and tomato sauce—spaghetti night, a family favorite. Dad is home, sitting at the kitchen table with a beer, his expression clouded. He brightens when he sees me.

"There's my artist," he says, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "How was school?"

"Good," I reply, setting my case by the stairs. "My project's almost done."

"That scholarship's as good as yours," he says with forced confidence. "My girl's too talented to be stuck in this town forever."

I smile, though his words sting. This town isn't so bad. It's simple, yes, and sometimes stifling, but it's where I grew up. Where we grew up together as a family, before things started to change, before Dad's "meetings" and Mom's worried frowns.

---