The Wish From Heaven | ✓

chapter 18 : the drawing

"You're drawing?" I ask, while taking off my shirt.

He glances up from the notebook. "Woah, I didn't even notice when you came back. And yes, I'm drawing."

"How is it going?"

"It's going really good. And you should eat more." He says the last sentence eying my body.

"I know." I smile, but the comment makes me embarrassed, so I quickly wear another shirt.

After changing back to normal clothes, I go over to the bed, where he is diligently absorbed in doing a sketch. I wonder if he is drawing her again.

"What're you drawing?" I ask, swinging my legs onto the bed. Before I can see it, he hastily hides the notebook behind his back. I feel a small sting in my chest.

"I— I'll show you after it's done!" he says, in a panic.

"Oh. Okay." My voice sounds more disappointed than what I intended it to, which July obviously notices.

His lips purse in. "Okay, fine. See it." He places the notebook between us. My heart actually skips a beat.

"It's me," I state.

"Yep. I still haven't finished your hair, though. It will look better after I do."

"You drew me?" I ask, not really believing it.

He shrugs. "Guess you inspire me."

I look at the drawing. It is a detailed portrait of my face, where my lips are slighly raised in a small smile, and my eyes look more gentle than I ever thought they could. It doesn't fully look like me, but it is recognizable. The sketching is done skillfully well, with all the perfect shades in the right places. He missed the mole on my nose, but I don't point that out. He probably hasn't noticed it.

This is how I look in July's eyes.

"It's beautiful, July." I smile at him. The fact that he took time to notice all the features in my face and put them so beautifully on paper with his own hands is something that makes me incredibly happy.

"Well, it's for you, so if you like it, then that's great. I will finish it by tomorrow, and then you can keep it."

I realize this drawing will stay with me even after July is gone. I nod and say, "I will treasure it."

He lets out a soft laugh, and goes back to work. I watch him carefully. The pencil moves in delicate strokes over the page. Sometimes he uses his thumb and rubs it over a certain part to mix the shades properly. When he draws the harder parts, his tongue sticks out from the side of his mouth. His eyes look focused. I wish I had something that I would do with so much love and passion.

I think about the drawing he hasn't told me about. It was also done beautifully. The long, black hair coming below her waist. The big, round glasses lightly reflecting the sky.

I wonder what kind of expression he had on when he was drawing her.

"Well, it's an honour to be the subject of the first drawing you did after you got your creativity back," I say, keeping a close look on his expression.

I notice him press his lips together and glance away once before smiling and replying, "It's a pleasure, monsieur."

My heart sinks. He goes back to drawing, and I keep staring at him, wondering why he can't admit who he drew first. A sort of anger rises in me. Anger in his secrets, in his mysteries, and his lies. It hasn't been many days since we met, but I had thought that the fact of me being the only person to ever be able to know of his presence has probably tied us up through a thick rope of emotional connection, making us naturally develop a strong bond of trust. I suppose it was only me who thought that.