chapter 3

Chapter 3: Sketches & Scars

Elara’s pencil glided across the page in slow, careful strokes, the rhythm steady like a heartbeat. She was in her usual spot—the last table by the window in the art room—alone during lunch. Her favorite place in the school. No judgment, no noise, just graphite and imagination.

But today, the lines weren’t her usual trees or dreamlike faces.

They were him.

Jaxon Reid’s eyes, brooding and tired. His jawline, tense like he always expected a punch. His lips, never quite smiling, but not entirely cruel either. Elara didn’t mean to draw him—he just… appeared. Again.

She turned the page quickly, flustered. She shouldn’t be thinking about him this much.

Not the school bully.

Not the boy with the sharp tongue and locked-up heart.

But somehow, he lived inside her sketchbook now.

That afternoon, Elara found herself walking toward the gym after school. She didn’t know why—her feet just took her there. She heard shouting and sneakers squeaking across the floor. Boys’ basketball practice. She peeked through the doors.

There he was.

Jaxon, sweaty and furious, dribbling down the court with sharp movements, every slam of the ball echoing his frustration. He wasn’t on the team, but he was there—maybe blowing off steam, maybe pretending for a second that he belonged somewhere.

She almost left.

But then she saw it.

When he reached for a rebound, his hoodie lifted slightly, and her eyes caught it.

A bruise.

Big. Purple. Faded yellow at the edges.

Not fresh—but not old either.

Elara’s heart dropped.

It wasn’t the kind of bruise you got from school fights.

It was the kind someone gives you in private—where no one can see.

She stepped back quietly, her breath caught in her throat.

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, Jaxon’s bruises burned into her memory. Not just the ones on his skin—but the ones in his silence, in his sarcasm, in his anger.

She didn’t want to pity him. That’s not what this was.

It was something else.

Something deeper.

The next day, they sat together in history class again. The Civil War project had forced them into a strange truce. Jaxon was quieter than usual, his hood up, eyes shadowed.

“Didn’t see you at the library,” she said softly as they packed up their bags.

“Didn’t feel like talking,” he muttered.

“I wasn’t going to talk. Just draw.”

He paused, looking at her. “You still drawing me?”

Her eyes widened. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he said, smirking a little. “You get this look when you’re doing it. Concentrated. Like I’m a puzzle you’re trying to solve.”

“I’m not trying to solve you.”

“Sure you are,” he said, brushing past her.

But he didn’t say it like it was a bad thing.

Later, Elara returned to the art room during her free period. She wanted to draw something else—anything else—but the image kept returning. Not his face this time, but the bruise.

She drew it.

Softly. Light shading. Just enough to capture the tenderness of it, the rawness. Then, in contrast, she drew a hand reaching toward it—not to hurt, but to heal.

It was her hand.

When she finished, she stared at it in silence.

Then she ripped the page out and folded it carefully.

The bell rang.

She didn’t think.

She found him near his

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