Chapter 2
Chapter Two
River
The studio smells like turpentine and wet canvas, a heady mix that sharpens my focus. I take my usual spot in the back corner near the sink, where the light is crisp and no one bothers me. It’s quiet here, quiet enough to think, quiet enough to want.
I open my sketchbook and start drawing without hesitation.
A wrist. A shoulder. The curve of a mouth that never softens.
It’s not a portrait, not exactly, but every line pulls me closer to him.
I don’t need a reference. I’ve memorized him—the way he stands when he lectures, the way his voice drops when he’s about to say something that matters, the way he looked at me like I was a problem he hadn’t decided how to solve.
I shade the jawline too sharply, smudging the eyes until they vanish into the page. The drawing begins to look like something I shouldn’t be making—a secret, a confession. But I keep going, because this is how I hold him. Not in conversation, not in touch, but in graphite and silence.
Each stroke is a tether, each shadow is a choice. I draw him the way I feel him; precise, unreadable, dangerous. I almost want someone to see it. If they ask who it is, I’ll lie. But if he sees it, I won’t have to say anything at all.
The pencil slips from my hand when my phone buzzes.
I glance down. Eli Dawson.
I hesitate. He never calls during the day. Not unless something’s wrong, or he’s checking in—his version of parenting, ever since Mom stopped trying and Dad stopped pretending.
I wipe my fingers on my jeans and answer. “Hey.”
His voice is warm, steady. Too steady. “You in class?”
“Do you think I would have answered if I were? Studio.”
“You sound weird.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
I pause, the sketchbook still open on the drawing of Julian’s mouth, his wrist, the tension I can’t name. “I’m just… focused.”
“Focused like normal, or focused like you’re spiraling?”
I almost smile. Eli knows me too well. He’s the only one who ever noticed when my focus stopped being productive, and started being compulsive. When I stopped sketching for class and started sketching to breathe.
“It’s not like that,” I answer, though I know he can hear the lie in my voice.
“River.”
“I’m managing it.”
“You always say that right before you stop.”
I close the sketchbook, not because I’m done, but because I hate how well he knows me.
“I’m fine, alright? I have to go,” I stare at the screen long after I hang up.
He’s right. I’m not careful, not when it comes to this. Not when it comes to him.
I open the sketchbook again. The drawing hasn’t changed, but I have. My pulse is faster, my thoughts are louder. I darken the shadows beneath the eyes, smudging the mouth until it looks like it’s about to say something cruel.
I know this isn’t healthy.
I know what Eli would say.
But this isn’t about health, it’s about control.
Julian Kincaid teaches literature like it’s a seduction; every lecture is a test, every text is a mirror. And I want to be the one who breaks it.
I draw the line of his throat, the tension in his jaw, the way his hand curls when he’s holding chalk. I’ve seen that hand in dreams I don’t talk about. I’ve drawn it a hundred times.
But this time, it’s different.
This time, I’m not drawing him to survive. I’m drawing him to claim him.
I open the sketchbook again, but I don’t draw. I just stare at the page; the mouth I shaded too dark, the hand I gave too much tension, the version of him that only exists in my head.
Then my phone buzzes again.
New post: Julian Kincaid – Literary Seduction
My breath catches.
I swipe it open without thinking. It’s not a mass announcement. It’s a note. Short. Precise. Cold.
“For those who wish to engage beyond the syllabus, I’ve uploaded an optional reading. Not required. Not graded. But relevant.”
There’s a link. A PDF. No title. Just a file name: Desire_and_Disobedience.pdf
My fingers tremble.
He didn’t mention it in class, didn’t say a word about extra reading. And yet here it is, posted less than five minutes ago.
I glance at the time.
He must’ve uploaded it right after I left.
It’s not for the class.
It’s for me.
But maybe it’s not.
My brain doesn’t think in lines. It loops. Thoughts don’t arrive; they invade. They echo. They multiply. One becomes two becomes ten, becomes a swarm I can’t swat away.
What if it’s not about me?
What if I made it all up?
What if I’m just sick again?
It’s like a radio I can’t turn off, every station tuned to panic. I try to reason with it. It’s just a file, just a reading. But my brain doesn’t care. It wants certainty, it wants proof. It wants to take the thought apart and rebuild it from every angle until it’s safe.
But it’s never safe.
So I check. Reread the message, scan the timestamp, count the minutes between when I left and when he posted. I try to calculate the odds. I try to know.
And when I can’t, I spiral.
Because OCD doesn’t feel like fear, it feels like urgency. Like if I don’t solve this, something will break, something inside me. Something I won’t be able to fix.
I press my fingers to my temples, trying to hold the thoughts in place, trying to stop the spin.
But it’s already happening.
The doubt. The shame. The need.
I want to believe he sees me. I want to believe this file is a message. But what if it’s not? What if I’m just a girl with a disorder and a crush, and a brain that lies?
What if I’m not special?
What if I’m just sick?
I leave the studio, my sketchbook clutched to my chest like a shield. The campus buzzes around me. Students laughing, rushing to their next classes, but I feel detached; as if I’m moving through a different world, a world where Julian Kincaid exists only in shadows and whispers.
As I step into my dorm, the familiar scent of old books and laundry detergent greets me. The room is a sanctuary, a cluttered haven of art supplies and half-finished projects. I drop my bag on the desk and let out a shaky breath, the weight of my thoughts pressing down on me.
I pull out my syllabus, a crumpled piece of paper that feels like a lifeline. I scan the pages, searching for any mention of the reading he posted. My heart races as I flip through, the familiar layout of assignments and due dates blurring together.
Week 3: Literary Seduction
Readings: “The Art of Seduction” (Nabokov)
“Desire and Disobedience” (Bronte)
“The Nature of Obsession” (Poe)
I stop, my breath hitching. There it is, the reading he mentioned. But was it on the syllabus before? I don’t remember seeing it. I flip back to the previous weeks, searching for clues, for some sign that this wasn’t just a spontaneous decision on his part.
Week 2: The Power of Desire
“The Language of Longing” (Various)
“Obsession in Literature” (Various)
Nothing. Just the same readings I’ve memorized, the same structure I’ve come to expect.
I glance at the clock. It’s still early, but I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for hours. I pull out my phone again, staring at the notification from Julian. The timestamp taunts me: Posted 5 minutes after class ended.
What does it mean? Was it a coincidence, or was he sending me a message?
I pace the small room, my heart pounding. The walls close in, and I can almost feel the weight of his gaze on me, the way he looks at me like a puzzle he’s eager to solve.
I sit down at my desk, my fingers trembling as I open the PDF. The file opens with a crisp click, and suddenly I’m staring at a blank page, the title missing, just like my certainty.
I scan through the document. It’s a collection of essays, each one more provocative than the last. The words leap off the page, igniting something inside me; a mix of desire and dread.
I read the first line, and it feels like a dare.
“Desire is a force that compels us to seek, to pursue, to possess.”
My heart races. Is he trying to tell me something? Or is this just another lesson, another way to keep his distance? I can’t shake the feeling that it’s directed at me, a secret message hidden in plain sight.
I scroll through the pages, my mind racing. The essays delve into the psychology of desire, the intricacies of obsession, and the thin line between admiration and fixation.
I can’t help but feel exposed, like he’s dissecting my thoughts and fears, laying them bare for all to see.
What if he knows? What if he sees the way I draw him, the way I fixate?
I slam the laptop shut, the sound echoing in the quiet room. I can’t breathe. My thoughts spiral, each one louder than the last, a cacophony of doubt and shame.
What if it’s not about me? What if I’m just reading too much into it?
I press my fingers to my temples, trying to quell the storm inside my head. I want to believe he sees me, I want to believe this file is a message. But what if it’s not?
I stand up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. I need to move, I need to do something to ground myself. I grab my sketchbook and head for the small common area, desperate for a distraction.
As I walk, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched, that Julian’s presence lingers in the air around me. I push open the door to the common room, the chatter of other students washing over me like a wave.
I settle into a corner, trying to focus on my sketchbook. But the lines blur, and the shadows deepen, the image of Julian staring back at me, a reminder of everything I can’t escape.
I need to know what he meant. I need to understand why he chose this reading, and why it feels like it’s meant for me.
As I sit there, pencil in hand, I realize this isn’t just about the reading. It’s about the pull he has on me, the obsession that wraps around my thoughts like a vine, tightening with every passing moment.
I draw the line of his jaw again, the tension in his expression, the way he looks at me like I’m a question he wants to answer.
But this time, it’s not just about capturing his likeness. It’s about claiming my place in his world.
I want him to see me, not just as a student, but as someone who understands the depths of desire and the dangers of obsession.
And I’ll do whatever it takes to break through the walls he’s built around himself.