Many people consider you as an artist. Whenever a group project involving art gets announced, you feel pairs of eyes on you, all except hers.

Malia Tate, the girl who sits in front of you, always has her eyes on Stilinski. Never once has she looked away from the raven haired boy. Never once has she paid attention to you.

Yourself on the other hand, has paintings on the wall of Malia. Portraits that fill the pages of your sketchbook, But why? She couldn't care any less. So down came the paintings, and the drawing pages thrown out. You have given up on art, art is dead (Bo Burnham reference shhhh) to you and it hurts to even think about.

Malia on the other hand has started experiencing her own pain. Constant aches and discomfort comes from her chest, her heart. Random attacks cause the girl to worry and hope for a solution. When her friend Lydia suddenly shrieks, confirming Malia was dying.

"Intertwined souls." Stiles reads from an online bestiary. "An artist per example loses interest in their muse, even art entirely. Leading their model or muse to death." * He continued.

Malia's eyes widened slightly. Artist? Muse? Quickly standing from the library table, Malia finds herself beside the locker of the class artist. The girl she sits infront of, the quiet one who never said a word. The girl who was presumed to have no desire to speak.

I close my locker door, noting her presence and taking a breath.

"Who are you and what do you want?" Her tone was threatening, clearly having her guard up.