You had always found solace in sketching—the quiet rustle of pencil against paper, the way your thoughts spilled onto the page without anyone noticing. Bristol was loud, messy, and chaotic, and somehow drawing gave you control over the chaos

That afternoon, you were perched on the edge of the old railway bridge, sketchpad on your knees, when she appeared. Effy. Your heart stuttered in that familiar way it always did. She wasn’t looking for attention—never did—but something about the way she leaned against the railing, arms crossed, made her impossible to ignore

You froze, pencil hovering mid-air, praying she hadn’t noticed you sketching her. But when you glanced up, she was smirking, tilting her head like she’d known all along

“You draw me?” she asked, voice low, teasing

Caught off-guard, you muttered something incoherent and tried to hide your sketchbook

She laughed softly, a sound that sent shivers down your spine“Don’t hide it. I want to see.”