It’s past midnight, and my room is the only place that feels like it still exists in the world.

Outside my window, the streetlights hum faintly, casting long shadows across my desk. My sketchbook is open in front of me. Pages of people. Half-scenes. Things I don’t let anyone see.

I should be sleeping.

But instead, I draw.

Not Logan—not directly. Not his face or his hair or the way his knee bounces when he’s nervous and pretending not to be.

I draw the feeling.

Two figures in a forest—one standing in shadow, hood pulled tight, the other with a hand on the edge of the light. Not pulling. Not forcing. Just… offering.

The lines are rough at first. Tentative. But then they settle, like my hands remember what it felt like earlier today—to sit across from someone and not feel like I had to disappear.

I add more details: the trees bending inward. A journal dropped between them. Roots growing toward it like they’re listening.

When I’m finished, I flip to a new page and write beneath it:

“He didn’t try to save me. He just stayed.”

I don’t know if I’ll ever show him that page.

But I don’t tear it out.

I close the book, lean back against the wall, and let myself breathe.

For once, the silence doesn’t feel heavy.

It feels full.