I didn't tell anyone about the sketch.
Not Amelia. Not Ethan.
It wasn't secrecy—it was self-preservation. Like keeping a paper boat afloat just a little longer before it hit the water.
The drawing wasn't perfect. Just a girl on a bed, legs curled in, headphones clutched like armour. Her room was full of shadows. Over her head floated words I'd once scribbled in a notebook I never let anyone touch:
"She doesn't sleep to escape.
She sleeps to forget she's still here."
I scanned it at the library, emailed it to the campus magazine under the name a.
Lowercase. Anonymous. Small on purpose.
Then I let it go.
I didn't expect anyone to notice. I only wanted it to exist somewhere that wasn't inside of me.
The magazine came out three days later. A quiet stack of them sat on the psych department's bulletin table, waiting to be picked up or ignored.
I wasn't paying attention until Ethan did. He reached for one, flipping through it absently, a half-eaten granola bar in his other hand.
"These always feel like someone left pieces of themselves behind," he said.
I didn't answer. My heart already knew which page he'd stop at.
When he got to it, he didn't speak. But his thumb paused just slightly on the edge of the paper. His head tilted the tiniest bit to the side, like he was listening to a voice only he could hear.
He read it twice.
Then he carefully closed the magazine and slipped it into his backpack like it was made of glass.
I said nothing.
But something warm flickered low in my chest.
That night, Amelia was curled up on her bed, phone screen lighting her face like a soft lantern. I thought she hadn't noticed how quiet I'd been all evening.
She had.
"You okay?" she asked softly, not looking up from whatever video she was watching.
I nodded. Then shook my head.
She put her phone down. "Is this about the sketch?"
I froze. "You recognized it?"
Her face tilted toward me—calm, unreadable, but kind. "Alexis, I've seen you draw the same posture a dozen times. Same headphones. Same tilt of the shoulders." She paused. "It was beautiful. A little heartbreaking. But beautiful."
I swallowed hard. "It wasn't supposed to be anything."
"It was," she said. "It was honest. And people need that."
The next afternoon, Ethan found me again in the library. Same corner. Same coffee. He didn't sit down right away—just hovered for a second, like he wasn't sure if he was interrupting something private.
Then he took the seat across from me and slid the magazine toward my notebook.
He tapped the page.
"I don't know if this is yours," he said, voice low. "But... if it is? I just want to say—it's one of the most real things I've read in a long time."
I didn't reply. Just traced the rim of my coffee cup with my finger.
Ethan leaned in slightly. "You always downplay how talented you are."
"I'm not—"
"You are." His voice didn't waver. "You're not just good at writing or drawing. You're good at seeing things most people skip over. That's a different kind of gift."
I didn't know what to say. So I looked down, embarrassed by how much I wanted to believe him.
He added, almost offhand, "Also, the way you shaded the shadows around the girl's arms? That's not just skill. That's soul."
I felt the breath catch in my throat.
No one had ever said anything like that before.
Not without a but. Not without asking for more.
Later that evening, I came back to the dorm and found Amelia sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by laundry she clearly had no intention of folding.
She glanced up. "Ethan texted me, by the way."
I froze. "Why?"
She gave me a look. "Because he's in love with your tortured artist aura and he's trying to be subtle about it."
I groaned and flopped onto my bed. "Don't start."
She crawled over to my side of the room and leaned her chin on the mattress. "Too late."
There was a beat of silence before she said, "You know... he talks about you like you're someone who matters."
I didn't answer. I didn't know how to.
"And me?" she added, softer. "I talk about you like someone who deserves more than she gives herself permission to ask for."
I blinked fast.
She smiled. "You're kind, Alexis. And brave. And wildly gifted. And sometimes? A little self-sabotagey. But we're working on it."
I laughed, or maybe cried. A quiet sound that trembled between the two.
She reached up and tugged at my sleeve. "You don't have to be 'okay' for us to see you. You just have to let yourself be seen."
That night, I pulled out my notebook again.
And for the first time in weeks, I didn't write about emptiness. I didn't draw loneliness.
I drew Amelia, arms flung dramatically across the laundry, looking at the ceiling like it had wronged her.
I drew Ethan, head tilted, thumb pausing on the edge of a page he wasn't ready to let go of.
I drew myself in the middle.
And above us, I wrote:
"They stayed.
Not because I asked.
But because I mattered."
Then I signed it. Just once. In the corner of the page.
It was not anonymous this time.