Artwork [h.s]

fifteen

I sighed. "Of course it's not the only thing I enjoy doing. In fact, I hardly draw if you're not here."

He looked back at me. "Why?"

"I find drawing really stressing, when it comes to drawing people. It's just - I'm very picky and I want things to be absolutely perfect, so it's really stressing. To get all the details right, and everything. It's stressing" I explained, looking back at the paper to capture the look he was giving me.

"Why do you do it, then?"

"For the satisfaction I get once the drawing is finished. It feels really good to know I managed to do something like that." I shaded the drawing lightly with my pencil, blending it with a piece of paper tissue. "And you? What do you like to do?"

"Nothing."

I glanced at him over my paper sheet. "I don't believe you."

"Why are you so interested all of sudden?" He said sharply.

"We're... just making conversation" I replied, confused.

"I'm not interested in making conversation."

"Alright" I said lowly. I kept drawing in silence for some more minutes, the only sound being the scratching of the pencil on the sheet. I put the drawing down on my knees, staring at the floor in the middle of the room. I put the drawing on the bed, facing down, not really caring that it could've ruined the blanket or the drawing itself and went out on the balcony of my bedroom, needing to get away from the room. I put my elbows on the railing, leaning on them and looking down at my garden. I could see part of the bushes of roses from where I was standing.

After some minutes I heard the French window open, and someone's presence next to me soon after.

"Standing somewhere high and looking down at the ground always makes me feel as if I could fly" he said softly.

I looked at him, taken aback by his confession. Why was he telling me something like that? Maybe he felt bad for shutting down our conversation earlier. "Where would you fly?" I asked him, sitting down with my back against the railing.

He did the same, but he turned so that he was facing me. "Somewhere" he replied, looking at the ground through the spaces in the railing. A soft autumn wind blew, dishevelling his hair, and he passed his fingers through it to put it back in place.

"Home?" I suggested, and he shook his head, letting out the phantom of a laugh.

"I wish."

I stayed silent, not knowing what to reply. We sat there for a while longer, until we got too cold, and then we got back inside.

He sat on the couch again, resuming the same position of before.

I sat back in front of him, taking my drawing again, the faint hope of completing it on that same day in my mind. I didn't say anything about the conversation we'd had on the balcony, and neither did he. I looked at the alarm clock on my nightstand, it was already half past five. "Do your parents want you back at home anytime soon?" I asked him, hoping to have enough time to finish it.

He gave me a weird look, not replying right away. "I can stay how long I please" he muttered in the end.

"At what time do you usually have dinner?" I asked again, not wanting to keep him from at least dining with his family.

"Whenever" he just replied, not being of any help.

I nodded to myself. "So I guess you can stay for another half an hour?"

He said nothing, so I took it as a yes.

Half an hour passed, and I still hadn't finished the drawing.

"Do you think you could come tomorrow again so that I can finish it?" I asked him hopefully.

"I'm busy" he replied, and I nodded.

"Hang on" I took the camera, that was still on the bed next to me, and took a picture of him, looking at it right after to make sure it was good. "This should work just fine" I whispered to myself, not noticing that Harry had stood up.

By the time I looked up from the camera, he was gone from the room.

I exited my bedroom and stepped into the bathroom, that was on the other side of the hallway, and moved the white curtain away, looking at him as he crossed the street, before disappearing around the corner again.

I went back in my bedroom, gathering my stuff and bringing it back into the studio. I took the book and put it back in its place before bringing the drawing to the desk and opening one of the drawers under it, fetching a transparent folder to protect it. As I carefully slid the paper sheet inside, I noticed something was on the other side of it. I turned it around, discovering that there was something written in a corner, in delicate marks and a somewhat messy handwriting I had never seen before. I took the drawing out of the folder to read it better. It was just a simple sentence.

"It's pretty."