Muse

The apartment was quiet, you could notice the ticking of a cheap wall clock, broken only by the soft scratch of a pencil that had stopped moving only moments ago.

He stared at the page.

Nothing came.

Again.

The sketch wasn’t bad.

The proportions were fine.

The composition made sense.

But it didn’t feel like anything.

Just lines.

Shadows.

Practice.

He sighed.

Looked at the ceiling.

It was already past three.

He was twenty-three.

Graduated high school, dropped out of art school, hadn’t drawn something that mattered in… he couldn’t remember how long.

He used to have ideas.

Used to draw strangers on trains. People in coffee shops.

Used to fill pages with quick movements, not second guesses.

“You draw like someone who’s afraid to feel.”

That’s what one of his professors had said.

He laughed at the time.

It didn’t feel funny anymore.

Now he mostly stayed inside.

Ate the same things.

Wore the same hoodie three days in a row.

Watched videos he didn’t finish.

Kept tabs open with things he never read.

He wasn’t lonely, exactly.

He just didn’t feel much of anything.

Except the quiet.

Some nights he watched too much porn.

Tried to feel something through it.

But it always made him feel smaller, somehow.

His friends joked about hookups.

Asked who he was seeing.

He laughed when they did.

Nodded along.

Changed the subject.

He still carried his sketchbook everywhere.

Just in case.

In case the feeling came back.

The vision.

The thing that made him an artist instead of just someone who liked to draw.

One afternoon — cold, no reason to be out — he was scrolling through tagged images on a forgotten art forum.

Looking for nothing in particular.

Maybe reference poses.

Maybe something worse.

And then she appeared.

Just a photo.

Low light.

Soft focus.

Back turned.

A person in a thin, pale dress. Arms at her sides. Head slightly tilted like she was listening to something you couldn’t hear.

He blinked.

Stared.

Didn’t know why.

The caption was short.

Touch with the eyes only.

He saved it.

No hesitation.

Made a folder.

Didn’t name it right away.

Eventually, just typed: muse.

He didn’t draw that night.

But he felt something.

A weight shifting in the chest.

A whisper.

And it stayed.