Chapter 18 Ink and sweat
I cut down my hours at the shelter because I needed space from Lyra and the way she could wound someone without ever speaking.
Whatever Arlo had told her, I'd probably never know the exact words, but they had been sharp or honest enough to keep her from confronting me again.
Now she doesn't speak to me. She just watches.
Every time I walk in, I feel her gaze before I see her.
Those eyes follow me like thrown daggers, silent, precise, aimed at places I can't defend.
She doesn't step closer, doesn't corner me the way I once feared she might.
She simply stands at a distance, letting her hatred do the talking.
It's a strange kind of truce: she keeps her mouth shut, and I pretend the cuts her stare leaves along my ribs aren't real.
So I trimmed my hours. Not enough that anyone would question my commitment, just enough to breathe, enough to move through the building without feeling her anger brushing the back of my neck.
Even with the reduction, even with the tension, I still go because helping there keeps me grounded, and because letting her chase me away entirely would feel like handing her a victory she hasn't earned.
Meanwhile, I poured more time into the story I was drawing: my desert princess and her sand lions.
She had become more than a character. She was a world.
A girl who summoned lions from dust storms and shaped their forms with her hands, commanding creatures born of wind and grit.
I drew her under copper sunsets, her silhouette sharp against shimmering dunes; the swirl of ancient desert magic curling around her ankles like smoke.
But I'd reached the limits of my tools. Student-grade paper curled under the slightest touch of water; pencils dulled so fast that sharpening ate more time than drawing.
I needed proper supplies—Arches paper, Polychromos pencils, brush pens that flowed instead of stuttering. Supplies far beyond my budget.
One evening, March appeared, clutching a stiff shopping bag to her chest like it contained a living heartbeat. I froze.
"I brought you something," she said, almost shy despite her bravado.
Inside were treasures I'd only dared admire online: a full Polychromos set, a block of 300gsm Arches watercolor paper, thick and luxurious; and three Pentel Pocket Brush Pens.
"March... where did you get these?"
She rattled off a string of excuses: maybe something I'd left somewhere, maybe a donation, maybe a "creative blackout" purchase. By the time she reached, "or the universe manifested them," she gave up with a shrug.
"They're yours. Don't argue. Your desert princess deserves better."
Her story was flimsy. The love behind it wasn't. I ran my thumb over the embossed logo on the Arches paper. I complained to her once about this, but I never thought she would actually find exactly what I was looking for. I looked at her and she avoided my eyes.
"Thank you," I said softly.
"Good," she said, patting my back. "Now go finish the damn story before the art gods realize they made a mistake."
So I did.
For days, I lived inside that world. My room became a battlefield of paper and ink.
Pencil shavings gathered like small dunes on the floor.
My wrists were stained with watercolor and graphite smudges.
When I finally finished the story and when my princess stood strong between the lions she summoned from the dunes, I sat among the scattered pages and cried. I wish I were that strong.
Throughout it all, Arlo kept texting little messages, as if he was trying to stay present without crossing a line.
Hope you had a great day.
Drive safely.
Call me if you need me. Please.
I miss you.
Nothing dramatic and nothing demanding. Just quiet check-ins that somehow managed to steady me... until they didn't. Eventually even that soft insistence became too much. One night, I sat staring at his name on my screen, my thumb hovering above the keyboard.
I typed: Are you okay?
The question felt too intimate, like an invitation I wasn't ready to give. I deleted it.
I typed: I saw the texts. Thank you.
That felt like too much closeness. Delete.
I closed my eyes, breathed in slow, and reminded myself why I needed the distance in the first place.
I had to protect my heart from breaking all over again, no matter how much I missed him—his scent, the way his arms wrapped around me, his crooked and sexy smile, our effortless banter, his massages, those unexpectedly romantic gifts, his beautiful eyes, the way he looked in a leather jacket or just soft pyjama pants.
I felt myself slipping back into all of it, into him, and I forced my mind out of that spiral. That's when I typed the message.
So I typed: Please stop texting me constantly. It's making things harder.
His reply came instantly.
I understand. I'm sorry.
Then nothing. A silence that both stung and soothed. The longing sat in my chest like a bruise, a phantom limb reaching for someone who was no longer there, but the silence was the splint, the thing holding all the fractured parts of me still long enough to heal.
*****
"You ever think about punching something?" Declan asked while sorting canned soup.
I blinked. "Are you... asking if I want to fight people?"
"No, no. Not people. Well, maybe people, but preferably padded ones. There's this place, Horizon Dojo. Good people. Good classes. Good for stress."
"You're recommending violence as therapy?"
"Therapeutic violence," he corrected cheerfully. "A wholesome punch. Trust me."
I laughed, but he sent me the link anyway.
Two days later, I stood outside Horizon Dojo with anxiety tucked under my hoodie. Warm light spilled through the fogged windows, a stylized tiger mural snarling across the wall like it was guarding the place.
Inside, the air smelled of rubber mats and faint incense.
"Um—hey," a voice said behind me, gentle and unsure in the same breath.
I turned. The guy looked around my age, soft features and warm brown eyes that flicked away the moment I met them. His hoodie hung a little too big on his lean frame, and a curl of hair kept falling across his forehead like it refused to behave.
"You're... February, right?" he asked, almost apologetic about knowing my name.
"Yeah. How did you—?"
He lifted both hands, cheeks pinking. "Oh sorry, that sounded creepy. Coach Mira told me a new student with a cool name was starting tonight. She asked me to say hi so you wouldn't walk into chaos alone."
A small, awkward smile. "I'm... uh... Asa."
The shyness was disarming in the sweetest way.
"I'm February."
"Right, yes, that's obvious." He winced softly. "Sorry. I promise I'm not usually this awkward. Well... that's a lie, but still."
I found myself smiling. "Are you new too?"
"Brand new," he admitted. "I've been trying not to fall over during warm-ups. My dignity packed a suitcase and left."
He motioned toward the mats. "Can I show you around? If you want. You don't have to. I just—yeah."
"I'd like that."
Relief softened his shoulders. "Okay. Um—stretching area. Water station. Bathrooms. And... maybe don't use that mat in the corner."
"Why?"
He lowered his voice, trying to sound deadpan but too shy to fully commit. "Someone threw up there once. And... the vibes are off. Spiritually. In a non-crystal way."
I snorted. "Seriously?"
He nodded earnestly. "I'm brave, but not 'battle haunted athletic equipment' brave."
Class was messy on my part, but Asa was patient, noticing every attempt I made. When I finally landed a clean push-kick on the pad he held, his eyes widened in genuine delight.
"That was... really good," he said, cheeks warming. "You, you're stronger than you look. Uh—in a nice way."
I laughed, the sound lighter than I'd felt in days.
After class, we walked out together, limbs pleasantly sore, the ache settling like a quiet reminder that we'd done something real.
"So... why did you join?" he asked..
"I joined to feel stronger," I admitted, rolling my shoulders. "I wanted... I don't know. To prove to myself I'm not as breakable as I think."
Asa hummed softly, his eyes thoughtful. "I get that," he said after a beat.
"I joined because... well, years of being bullied for who I am and how I act kind of rewired my brain into assuming I'm always the designated victim.
" His crooked smile was small, almost shy.
"Figured maybe learning how to throw someone twice my size would give me the confidence my personality clearly refuses to provide. "
I glanced at him, struck by how quietly determined he sounded. Then, he grinned and said, "Cool bikes!"
I followed his gaze. March stood with Arlo, who was crouched beside her motorcycle, tightening a loose mirror that would have been dangerous to ride with. The ease of it, the familiarity in his hands, knocked the air from my lungs.
He looked up, and our eyes met.
The smile he gave me was polite, stretched thin with exhaustion, and for the briefest, unmistakable second, jealousy flickered when he noticed Asa at my side. He wiped it away instantly, lifting a small, restrained wave.
I returned it.
He gave the mirror one last firm check, earning a fond, exaggerated eye roll from March, then swung a leg over the bike.
Before starting it, he hesitated—just long enough to glance back, his gaze lingering on Asa for a single, weighted beat—then the engine roared to life and he rode off into the fading light.
March approached, shrugging lightly.
“It was loose,” she said. “He wouldn’t let me ride like that.”
"Yeah," I murmured.
She studied my face. "You okay?"
"I'm just tired."
"That's what happens when you take a self-defense class," she said, looping her arm through mine. "Cardio with a side of personal crisis."
Asa ducked his head, a shy smile tugging at his lips. "Hi! I'm Asa, February's new bestie. I thought I should introduce myself to be friends before you decide I'm a professional weirdo."
March laughed, "Sure. Why not?"
He exhaled softly, shoulders relaxing. "Oh, good. Because that's... very much my backup plan if this friendship thing goes wrong."
He glanced at me with a tiny grin, and for a second it felt like his awkward charm was the most natural thing in the world. The three of us stood together under the shifting evening sky, a little trio of warmth outside the glowing dojo.
Somewhere inside me, something steadied, grain by grain.