Isaac’s hands move without thinking, shaping the clay with the care of a lover’s touch. His thumbs press into the soft surface, tracing the curve of her cheek, the delicate dip above her lips. He knows these features by heart—the gentle slope of her nose, the way her chin lifts just slightly, like she’s about to say something clever. It’s always her.

He tries to sculpt other things. Professors tell him to explore new subjects, but his hands always find their way back to her. He sculpts her when he should be sleeping, when he should be studying, when he should be forgetting. But forgetting feels impossible when her face lives in the clay beneath his fingertips.

She moved away a long time ago. They were in love, so deeply in love. But her parents were too strict, didn’t approve of her love with a lower standard guy who barely had enough money to get into art school. Her parents were strict and rich, they wanted a different path for her so they took her away.

He steps back, studying the unfinished piece. It’s close, painfully close, but something is always missing. The way her lips parted when she laughed, the way her eyes softened when she looked at him—things clay can’t hold, no matter how hard he tries.

His fingers brush the sculpture’s cheek. His chest aches. If he gets it right, maybe he’ll be able to let her go.

But for now, he reaches for more clay and begins again.