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Maya had always found comfort in the quiet corners of the school library.
Here, no one whispered cruel things behind their hands. Here, no one glared at her with hate in their eyes. Here, the ghosts of what she'd lost—of who she used to be—didn't feel quite as loud.
She sat in her usual corner, surrounded by dusty shelves and forgotten classics. A heavy book lay open in her lap, but she hadn't turned the page in ten minutes. Her thoughts kept wandering back to the note.
"You should've died that night."
It was still folded and hidden in the bottom of her bag, but it felt like it was stamped across her chest for everyone to read.
Her fingers twitched, aching to draw—to escape. But her sketchbook was still missing. Elias still had it.
That thought made her chest ache in a different way. The way he looked at her—like she was disgusting, like she was the dirt beneath his boots—it hurt worse than anything the other students could throw at her.
He hadn't always looked at her like that.
Before Mira died, he barely looked at her at all. Maya had been invisible to him, the quieter twin, the one who stayed home and did homework while Mira ran wild and lit up rooms like fireworks. But now?
Now Elias saw her too clearly.
And every time their eyes met, it was as if he wanted to tear her apart.
She was lost in those thoughts when she heard it.
Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Purposeful.
She looked up.
And there he was.
Elias.
He didn't say a word as he approached. Just slid into the seat across from her, his long frame folding into the wooden chair like it was a throne he was too powerful for. His uniform was slightly rumpled, the collar loose, his black school jacket draped over one shoulder.
Even now, she noticed the little things about him—the way his fingers tapped against the table, the faint scar on his jaw, the tired shadows under his eyes.
He looked like a storm in human form.
Dangerous. Cold. Beautiful.
Maya clutched her book tighter. "Why are you here?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a familiar object.
Her sketchbook.
Her breath hitched. "You—"
"I kept it long enough," he said flatly, flipping through the pages. "I thought it'd be a stupid waste of time. But…"
His fingers stopped at a particular page.
Her heart dropped.
She knew exactly which one it was.
A charcoal sketch. Detailed. Deep. Painful.
Of him.
Sitting on the bleachers, hoodie over his head, head bowed, his hands buried in his hair.
Drawn from memory. From pain.
He turned it around slowly.
"You've been watching me."
Maya's voice was small. "Not like that."
"You draw me crying."
"I wasn't trying to—"
"You made me look like I feel." His eyes locked on hers. "That's the problem."
She stayed silent. What could she say? It was true. Her drawings were her only voice.
Elias snapped the book shut and tossed it onto the table between them. "I'm giving it back."
She blinked. "You are?"
"I'm not interested in keeping your secrets. You already keep enough of them."
Her fingers reached out slowly, brushing against the cover like it was fragile. Precious.
But before she could pull it toward her, he spoke again.
"You really don't get it, do you?"
She froze.
His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Mira was everything. She wasn't just the girl I liked. She was the girl who made life bearable in a place full of fake people and worse parents. She knew everything about me. And she still smiled."
He leaned forward. Close enough that she could see the anger behind his eyes was made of something deeper.
Grief.
"You took her away."
"I didn't—" Her voice cracked. "It was raining. She was laughing. I didn't even see the curve until—"
He slammed a fist against the table. Not loud. But enough to make her flinch.
Her eyes dropped to his hand.
Bruises. Purple. Raw. Fresh.
"You think I care about your excuses?" he hissed. "She's in the ground. You're still breathing."
Maya's throat tightened. "I hate myself for it every day."
He stared at her.
And for the first time—his expression cracked. Just a little.
Not forgiveness. Not understanding.
Just something… human.
"I wish I could hate you less," he said softly, almost to himself. "But then I look at you… and I see her. And it makes me wish I'd never met either of you."
He stood.
Grabbed his bag.
And walked away.
But just before he turned the corner, she heard him whisper, like he didn't want her to—but needed her to:
"You draw too honestly, Maya. Maybe one day that'll kill you too."
And then he was gone.
She sat there, shaking.
Surrounded by silence.
Her sketchbook in her hands.
And a heart that now hurt in places she didn't even know existed.
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