When the Paint dries 🎨🤎

New Canvas

The hallways smelled like fresh paint and someone's over-sprayed body spray. It was the kind of scent that clung to your clothes and followed you home, a chemical reminder that things had changed.

Alana pulled the sleeves of her oversized hoodie down past her palms and adjusted her backpack strap. The school was bigger than her old one, and louder. It had been a year and a half since she'd last walked through halls like these—before everything went black and quiet and hollow.

Before Malik.

She kept her head down as she passed clusters of students laughing too loudly, lockers slamming shut, the occasional squeak of sneakers on linoleum. It felt like walking through someone else's life, one where her heart hadn't been split open on a rainy highway that night.

Room 217. Art. Her counselor said starting with something "creative" might help. Alana didn't argue. She hadn't argued about much since the accident.

The room was warm, sun-drenched through high windows. Canvases were leaned against walls, and the smell of paint and charcoal floated in the air. The teacher, a short, sprightly woman with curly red hair and splattered overalls, greeted her with a too-bright smile.

"Alana, right? You can sit anywhere you like. We're just working on emotion portraits."

Emotion. Great.

She slid into a seat in the back corner and took out her sketchpad. Her fingers hesitated over the page. What emotion was she even supposed to draw? Numbness? Guilt?

"You're new."

The voice came from across the table. She glanced up, startled.

A guy sat there, long limbs folded loosely, his pencil moving smoothly over his paper. He didn't look up when he spoke. Dark skin, locs pulled into a low bun, sleeves of his black hoodie pushed up to reveal ink-stained hands.

"Yeah," she said, barely audible.

"Elijah," he said.

She nodded.

He didn't say anything else, just kept drawing. That was fine with her.

The rest of the period passed in silence. The teacher came by, offered a few words of encouragement that didn't quite reach her. Alana sketched something abstract—just lines and shadows—and felt her lungs lighten, just slightly.

As the bell rang and chairs scraped, Elijah finally looked at her. His eyes were deep-set and thoughtful, the kind that felt like they'd already seen too much.

"You draw like someone who's been through it," he said.

And then he left.

Alana sat frozen for a moment. She wasn't sure if it was a compliment or an accusation. Either way, she felt it.

At lunch, she sat alone. Until a lanky girl with fire-engine red hair and a purple corduroy jacket plopped down across from her.

"Hey. You're new. I'm Poppy. You look like someone who'd appreciate sarcasm and low expectations."

Alana blinked.

Another girl sat beside her, sipping Capri Sun out of a wine glass. "We're the weirdos. Theater kids. But not the annoying ones. Mostly."

"You were brooding," Poppy added. "We like that."

Alana opened her mouth, unsure what to say. But instead of pushing them away, she found herself saying, "I'm Alana."

They smiled like she'd just passed a test.

And somehow, between Poppy's monologue about her tragic audition for Chicago and Capri Sun Girl (whose name turned out to be Bria) arguing about who should've won Best Actress in 2004, Alana laughed. Just once. Just a little.

But it cracked the numbness.

Later that night, she opened her sketchpad and without thinking, began sketching a boy with locs and haunted eyes.

She stopped halfway through and closed it quickly, like she'd been caught doing something wrong.

Because even though Malik was gone, it still felt like betrayal.