I collect myself and head back into the classroom where students are chatting in their groups already. I stagger a moment, wondering which group I’m supposed to be in. Ellie eyes me and then moves them to Professor Hampton. Her lips spread into a wide grin, and I roll my eyes at her ridiculous assumption.

“Aspen…” His smooth voice catches my attention to the front where he’s leaning up against his desk. “You’re in group two, over there.” He nods his head in their direction and flashes me a small concerned smile.

I walk over to a group with four other students. They give me the handout with a list of conversation questions.

“What are these for?” I ask softly.

“He wants us to get to know each other on a more personal level,” one of the guys answers, adding in quotes around personal.

“He thinks it’ll make us more comfortable to be creative during class,” Lauren adds with a much better explanation. I grab the sheet and read over the questions. I hate this part of school. I don’t understand why teachers always want us to share so much all the time. It’s like they think we all need to be friends, but in doing so, it feels like I’m being forced to reveal things I never would under normal circumstances. It’s like exposing layers of ourselves we aren’t ready to give up yet, layers we intentionally keep up.

“Name your favorite memory,” the same guy reads from the sheet. He answers right away. “My favorite memory is when my family all flew to Florida from Ohio, and I swam in the ocean for the first time. I was thirteen and it was the best vacation we’d ever had.”

Next to him, Lauren gives her response. “Mine would be when I won an art contest in high school. I went all the way to state and won first place. I remember how proud my parents were and it was really the first time they accepted that I was going to make art my career.”

The other guy in our group tells us his, and then they all look at me, waiting for my answer. I swallow, trying to think of something. “Um…” I try to clear my throat, mentally preparing myself to share intimate details of my past. My birthday had always been my favorite day before the incident, but the last six years I hadn’t brought myself to celebrate it.

“That’s okay, we can go to another one until you think of something,” Lauren cuts into my thoughts. I smile in thanks back, relieved I didn’t have to give a response.

We continue the rest of the questions. There’s five total, but with five people, it took us a half hour to get through. I’m able to answer the other four questions, as they were all quite basic, but no one mentions the first one I missed, so I definitely don’t bring it up.

Once all the groups are finished, Professor Hampton directs us back to our seats.

“Before we begin the very first assignment, I have a short exercise. I want you to draw or paint one of your answers from the questionnaire. Make it brief, it’s only a draft. But do the best you can.” He looks up at the clock on the wall and continues, “I’ll give you about thirty minutes and then we have to move on.”

Students immediately fly out of their chairs to grab the easels and sort through their supplies. Soon we’re all back in our half circle, silently working. I prefer to work standing up, so I move my chair back and get into position.

The peace and quiet only broken up by soft chatter is comforting and reminds me of all the times in high school I’d draw for hours in silence. My thoughts would stay focused on the paper, making me feel free to create whatever I wanted.

I decide to do the one I never answered—my favorite memory.

Which also happens to be my worst memory.

I start the outline of the tree’s trunk and then move upward to the branches. I add in some shading and little twig pieces. Since this is a brief assignment, I can’t get too detailed. I attach some leaves, knowing in mid-April the trees weren’t entirely blossomed yet in Illinois. I extend the branch Ariel and I always sat on or hung from. It was the thickest and sturdiest on the tree. Thinking back to it now, I’m actually surprised it held the both of us from all the climbing, hanging, and bouncing around on it.

She loved challenging herself to climb higher and higher. She was always fearless. That was what I loved about her. She made me feel brave enough to take risks, to try new things. Now I felt more scared than ever.

As I’m tilting my head, shading in the rest of the tree trunk, I feel cold air blow past me. Goose bumps rise on my skin, making a shiver ripple through me. I feel his presence behind me before I see or hear him. I know he’s behind me, watching my every move. It feels intimate, the way he’s silently studying me. I slowly turn my head and shift my eyes down to his feet.

“Don’t stop,” he says sincerely. “I’m enjoying watching you.”

“Being watched makes me nervous,” I admit.

“Just pretend I’m not here.” I hear the humor in his tone, but I keep the smile from forming on my face.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” I whisper softly. Not a guy like him anyway. My body shivers, heat centering right in between my thighs as I feel how close he is to me.

“That’s a shame. You have a beautiful craft.” My eyes move up his body and land on his eyes. He’s watching me intently, his lips in a crooked, satisfying smile.

“Thank you.”

“I mean it. The way your eyes glide over the paper as your hand moves is a perfect blend of focus and creativity. I can see the thoughts running through your head as your body takes the lead.”

His words are so honest that I’m not even sure how to respond. My lips form a small, pleased smile. “Years of practice.” I shrug casually. “I preferred to draw alone for a really long time,” I explain without giving away too much.

“And now?” he prompts, his voice somehow smooth and rough at the same time.

“Now…I’m still getting used to an audience, I suppose. But it’s getting easier and easier with each class I have.”

“That’s good to hear. I’ve seen some of your portfolios from your other classes. You have a lot of talent, Aspen.” My body hums at the way his voice sounds when he says my name—deep, hoarse.

I swallow, trying to hide the anxiousness and fear that he’s seen my other drawings before. Painting is very personal for me and even though it’s meant to be shared with the world, I tend to be over-critical of myself. Most of them are somber, intense pieces. Even the brighter colored ones have a darkness surrounding them.

“Thank you.”

“You have a unique style. I’m looking forward to seeing what you create this semester.”

I rub my teeth along my lower lip, sucking it in as I stare intently at him. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you teach this semester.” His lips curl up into a satisfying grin as he shoves his hands in his pockets and begins walking toward the next student.

I turn back around and continue working, my heart pounding rapidly in my chest. I associate drawing and art with many things, but most significantly, Ariel. Every time I get my head into a creative mindset, my heart goes with it.

MORGAN

I never should’ve sat down next to her, but once I saw her, I couldn’t help myself.

I recognized her facial profile the moment I walked into the classroom from the few self-portraits I studied in her portfolio. So detailed, so emotional.

I had only meant to introduce myself and get a few minutes alone with her to discuss the pieces in her portfolio. However, that plan derailed as soon as her friend sat down next to her.

The moment I hear the sweet hum of her laughter, I’m even more intrigued than before. For someone who draws such passionate pieces, I assumed she’d be covered in black clothing, wear heavy eyeliner, and be plastered with a permanent scowl on her face. But she’s nothing like that at all. In fact, she’s the complete opposite.