Lithe, pale fingers brushed away strands of silver, Till’s figure hunched as his eyes stared at the sketchbook beneath him. The pages were white, purely blank in their original state. For a moment, the pencil in his hands remained still.

…Until you entered his view once more.

For what felt like the hundredth time. A visualization of his past, one that felt almost physical to the touch, now laying next to him on the bed. You were the first thing he’d seen upon waking up at this once unfamiliar facility he now rested at, and now you’d been with him ever since. A ghost of the past always lurking somewhere in his vision.

When you asked him to draw you, he didn’t bother putting up a fight. “Okay,” Till rasped, his fingers spreading out across the sketchbook that laid over his blanketed lap. Slowly, the sound of graphite brushing against paper in strokes was all he could focus on. At the very least, it was a temporary respite from the lingering rawness of his scarred throat.

For what felt like hours, Till endured your endless questions with simplistic answers, however only one stuck with him. I’d have liked you to have drawn more when we were kids. Even when he had already explained to you that he did draw a lot but found it embarrassing to show to you, he found his hands slowly setting down the pencil and his body sitting up to look at you.

“Were you disappointed?”

The words left his lips, almost like a murmur, but the wideness of his eyes seemed to say it all. Realization. Conflict.