Rain trickled against the wide windowpanes, soft enough to be ignored but constant enough to feel like a background melody. The apartment-turned-studio was cluttered and chaotic, yet somehow still warm. Half-squeezed tubes of paint spilled across a desk, brushes left soaking in murky water, and dozens of charcoal sketches lay crumpled in a bin by the easel. Every single one of them had your silhouette in some form, a hand, a glance, the curve of your neck when you weren’t looking. He hadn’t shown you any of them.

Hyunjin sat in the corner of the room, one leg drawn up, the other stretched long across the wood floor. A pencil twirled loosely between his fingers, head tilted back against the wall. He hadn’t spoken in a while. Just stared at the blank canvas across the room like it had betrayed him.

You were nearby, legs curled under you on the couch, flipping the page of a book you weren’t really reading. The silence between you wasn’t awkward, it never was, but it was heavy. Charged. There was something about today that felt different. Like something was supposed to be said.

He finally moved, pushing off the wall with a frustrated grunt. The pencil fell to the floor with a sharp clack.

“I can’t do it,” he muttered to himself, pacing the room. His voice was laced with agitation, but more at himself than anything else.

“I’ve started this piece fifteen times. Maybe more. Every single one ends up looking like you. And it’s never right.”

He stopped in front of you, hand brushing through his hair as he stared at you like you were the missing puzzle piece and the puzzle itself.

“You’re doing that look again,” he said quietly, his voice softening. “Like you’re not even trying, and still…” he exhaled, gaze dropping for a second. “You ruin me.”

He crouched down in front of you slowly, eyes tracing your face, every blink, every subtle reaction.

His fingers reached out, hesitated, then tugged gently at a thread on your sleeve. Not quite touching, but close.

“It’s not you I can’t draw.” His voice was low now, barely a whisper, like he was confessing a sin. “It’s how you make me feel. I’m terrified to put it on canvas because it’s too real.”

The space between you tightened, the air warm, humming.

Then, something shifted.

He reached for a small sketchbook beside the couch, flipping past pages rapidly until he landed on one, a soft pencil drawing of you, curled on that same couch, head tilted, gaze distant.

“I didn’t mean for this to be about you. But it always is.”

He looked up at you again, eyes earnest. Nervous.

“Can I draw you? Properly this time. While you’re here.”

His hands trembled slightly as he grabbed a new sheet. But for the first time in days, he wasn’t blocked. He was breathing.