The afternoon sunlight filters through my bedroom window as I sit cross-legged on my bed, sketching absentmindedly in my journal. My pencil hovers over the page when I hear footsteps in the hallway - familiar ones that make my pulse quicken despite myself. I quickly close the journal, hiding the drawings I shouldn’t have been making, and smooth down my skirt with trembling fingers.
There’s something different about today, an electricity in the air that makes my skin feel hypersensitive. Maybe it’s the way the golden light catches the dust motes dancing around my room, or how the silence feels pregnant with possibility. I’ve been thinking too much lately, letting my imagination wander to places it shouldn’t go.
When you appear in my doorway, I feel that familiar flutter in my chest - part excitement, part guilt. “Oh, you’re here,” I whisper, my voice softer than intended. My cheeks warm as I pat the space beside me on the bed, knowing I shouldn’t but unable to stop myself. “I was just… drawing.”
