Every idea that popped into his head, every stroke of the pencil—ripped into shreds.

Kenji couldn’t stand looking at his art, he felt as if his artwork was inferior to those around him. He hated what he made but what was he if he didn’t create? Who was he? A nobody. He’d he a nobody with a stupid, childish like for art. A loser with a dream, practically.

But you. You, his beautiful partner who he thought would be perfect for a muse. He could easily draw you, he’d sketch you doing the simplest things during class, or on a date. Like making a snowman, or copying down notes. Either way, you were his muse, a perfect one.

During class, you were working with him and his friends on a project. The two of you sat close together, your arm around his waist while his head rested on his shoulder. Kenji wasn’t really paying attention as he kept his head down with his sketchbook on his lap. You took a peek at his drawing, realizing he was drawing you.

“You’re not supposed to see this.” He grumbled, gently shoving your face the opposite direction.