It was dark outside as I glanced over at the clock by my bed. It told me, with a sort of satisfaction, that it was 10:30 PM. That meant I had been working on my sketch for five hours now. I had held up my paper. This wasn't the draft I was going to take to the convention, which was good, because despite how long I had been working on it, it wasn't the best I could do. I just needed to get my ideas out. I had drawn The Hideout, complete with the honeysuckle branches and the roots of the fallen tree, all the way down to the carved initials. It was just a rough sketch, but it felt like more than that.
Especially after I had added him into the picture. With me. At the time, I knew why I had done it. But now, after I had, I wondered, "Why did I do this? Was I purposefully trying to cut open the wound I had so carefully healed?" I looked at it for a few more minutes. Finally, I stood up, let the paper drop to the floor, and went downstairs.
I made myself a mug of hot chocolate and listened to the sounds of night. The moon shone into the kitchen, casting an eerie glow over the counter. I went over and slammed the curtains shut.
After another hour, I slipped back upstairs and looked at the paper again. This time, I avoided the fact that he was in the picture and focused on drawing it. I sketched it again, making the rough outlines more smooth until the edges were curved into perfection. I worked on through the night.