I returned to my apartment and set my keys down on the small tray near the entrance. The restlessness that had clung to me all day was gone, replaced by a lingering, confusing sense of calm. It didn't make sense. I should be more unsettled, but for some moment, I just felt... quiet.
My thoughts immediately drifted back to the reason of my anxiety, my parents and their profound dislike for my chosen path. The education major was the first real choice I had ever made for myself. In a family of relentless high achievers, my desire to be an artist of any sort was viewed as a bizarre defect, not a talent. From childhood right through my teens, I was only able to draw by hiding in the shadows.
It was my nanny, Darla, who saved me. Bless her, she was the one who supplied me with sketchbooks and pencils. The very first sketch I ever made was of her. She was the only person in that cold, cavernous house who understood my dream until I lost her. She was kicked out because of me, and I had lost contact with her years ago.
With a heavy sigh, I made my way to the living room. My roommate, Stormy, was already sitting on the sofa with a face mask on and the remote in her hand. The TV in our apartment was rarely turned on. Every free moment I had was spent perfecting my craft, since I was here on a hard-earned scholarship and my parents refused to support me. Stormy was usually out and about, so the rare quiet nights were precious.
"Hey," I said, coming closer to the sofa.
"Hey," she responded, her voice muffled behind the drying clay mask.
"I'm going to wash up and cook something," I said. "Have you eaten?"
"Yes," she replied, not looking up from the screen. "You can eat."
I nodded and headed to my room. Inside, I let out another long exhale before quickly grabbing clothes to shower. Emerging twenty minutes later, I felt more human. I went to the kitchen and pulled ingredients from the fridge, vegetables to make some noodles, and a few dumplings to defrost.
Getting busy in the kitchen was always therapeutic. The rhythmic chopping and the hiss of the pan finally allowed me to relax, the strange encounters of the day fading into the background.
My phone pinged while I was plating the food. I took a look.
It was him. His number on my screen, indicating a new text. I guess he was even more persistent than I gave him credit for.
I stared at the screen, debating whether to ignore it. Curiosity was my undoing. I unlocked the phone and opened his text.
"Add me to Snapchat."
The next notification confirmed he had already added me and sent a picture. Without accepting his request yet, I opened the picture. I was almost afraid it might be something explicit, but it was just food atop a countertop. The sleek, black surface of the counter acted as a perfect backdrop for a steak that looked incredibly appetizing.
He added another text: "I cooked."
I had a hard time believing the infamous Liam Lincoln, the player, actually knew how to cook. I knew I was judging him based on rumors and heresy, but so far, I had no reason not to. The question was, what did he want?
Another text appeared "?" just a simple question mark.
It almost made me laugh. Was he looking for praise? Or was he demanding that I add him back? I decided to keep it safe. I sent a quick thumbs-up emoji, exited the app, and looked up.
The smile was still on my face when I realized Stormy was standing nearby the fridge, watching me. Her expression remained perfectly neutral, but I could feel the curiosity radiating off her. She didn't say a word, though. She just took a soda from the fridge and headed back to her room.
I shrugged, the strange moment vanishing as quickly as it had arrived. I dialed Charlie's number, and we talked for a little bit about nothing important.
Finally, after finishing my usual routine and washing the dishes, I got into bed and sighed with relief. It was over. I picked up my phone for one last check. He had sent an angry emoji in response to my thumbs-up, but he hadn't texted afterward.
I set the phone on the nightstand, but as I did, I saw the sketchbook peeking out of my tote bag on the floor.
That realization hit me like cold water. No way. I had sketched him. Not just once, but multiple times since that first night. If my friends found out, or if he somehow found out, it would ruin me. I couldn't have that proof existing.
I got out of bed, pulled the sketchbook from the bag, and began searching for the pages. I ripped them out with a sense of frantic urgency. Folding them neatly, I placed the graphite lines of his face inside a box where all my other memories were. He was hidden now. Hidden with the rest of the past.