Page 12 of Kept

It’s hard to draw realistically when your entire world is contained to one place.

Closing my eyes, I think.

If only I had memories. Something from my childhood, before my parents died. But there’s nothing, only a blank space and the echoes from this room.

I could draw Ethan. I’ve done it before, but I don’t like those sketches. He looks harsh, and angry. And even though he’s never said it, I don’t think he liked them either. His face changed to match the sketch, and he didn’t bring me anything nice for his next few visits.

I haven’t drawn him since.

Chewing my lip, I press the graphite down, making a soft dent in the paper.

“Come on,” I whisper. “Give me something.”

The flicker takes me by surprise, and I almost drop my pencil. Grabbing for it, I run the tip over the page, soft and hard lines of gray making squiggles on the page until it begins to emerge.

A face.

A face like mine, but… older. Wide eyes, soft and happy. A gently sloping nose, high cheekbones with a blush, washed out by the gray I’m using. Framed with short curls, the exact same shade of blonde as mine.

In my mind, at least.

My fingers clench around the pencil so hard I hear a snap, but I don’t care.

Because I’m staring down at something I’ve never seen before.

Shaking off the pencil pieces, my finger hovers over the sketch. I can almost see her in my mind, but it’s fractured, little broken parts like the shattered pieces of a mirror. But the image in my hands is whole, unbroken.

A sound breaks me out of my stupor, and I glance up, my fingers tightening on the page. The afternoon light has darkened into early evening as I’ve sat here, and… the elevator is lifting.

My whole body locks up for a split second, and then I move.

Frantically, I shove the sketchbook back into the drawer, slamming it shut and jumping up. My hand flies to my braid, my throat closing up.

I’m a mess. My hair is barely dry and there’s no way I can fix it before the doors open.

Fighting to keep my breathing normal, I take up my position opposite the elevator doors. My hand is shaking as I smooth down my dress, and I close it into a fist.

Pull yourself together, Zella.

This is ridiculous. Ethan’s not going to care that much.

Maybe.

But it’s too late to change anything now, as the metal doors slide open. Ethan steps into the apartment, somehow making it feel impossibly smaller as he sweeps a casual glance around. At least, it looks casual, but his eyes are assessing as he scans the statues. Hazel eyes turn to me.

My smile is weak. “Good evening, Ethan. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“Zella. I wanted to check on you. You didn’t seem like yourself yesterday.” His voice is smooth, not giving anything away. But the crease in his eyebrow deepens as he looks me up and down. “Busy day?”

I flush. “I… I lost track of time.”

Thin lips purse in disapproval as he moves on to my hair. “I can see that. Your dress is dirty.”

Breaking my carefully curated pose, I look down to see the gray smudges marking the white cotton. “It was clean this morning. I was sketching—,”

Ethan takes a few steps to stand in front of me, leaning down to look into my face. I can feel my lip wobbling as I avoid his eyes. “I’m sorry, Ethan.”

My voice is barely a whisper as I wait, and he blows out a breath.

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