Noah’s POV

The smell of paint has a way of settling into your lungs like it belongs there.

Not sharp enough to sting, not soft enough to ignore—just… constant. Like a quiet presence that wraps around you and refuses to leave. I used to think I’d get tired of it someday, that maybe one day I’d walk into the studio and feel suffocated instead of comforted.

But I don’t.

If anything, it’s the only place where everything in my head finally slows down.

“Are you even listening to me, or are you mentally naming shades of blue again?”

I blink, dragged out of the careful way I’d been blending color across my canvas, and glance sideways at Amara. She’s leaning against the stool next to mine, arms crossed, eyebrow raised like she already knows the answer.

“I’m listening,” I say, even though I definitely wasn’t. “You said something about… food?”

Her stare sharpens. “I said I’ve been talking for five whole minutes about how I might fail sculpture because someone”—she points dramatically at me—“refused to help me carry clay yesterday.”

I tilt my head, considering her, then glance at her perfectly fine hands. “You look… not failed.”

“That’s not the point, Noah.”

“It kind of is,” I murmur, turning back to my canvas before she can smack me with a paintbrush.

She does it anyway.

“Rude,” I say, but there’s no heat in it.

Around us, the studio buzzes with noise—brushes tapping against glass jars, chairs scraping, low conversations layering over each other like background music. Someone’s laughing too loudly near the windows. Another group is arguing about perspective like it’s a life-or-death situation.

Normal. Loud. Messy.

Safe.

I drag my brush slowly across the canvas again, softening the edge of a shadow. It’s a portrait, technically—but not of anyone specific. Just a face that exists somewhere between memory and imagination. I’ve been stuck on the eyes for days.

They never look… right.

“They look sad, you know.”

Amara’s voice is quieter this time, less dramatic, more thoughtful. I glance at her again.

“What does?”

She nods toward the canvas. “The eyes. It’s like he’s waiting for something that’s not coming back.”

I pause.

I hadn’t meant for that.

Or maybe I did.

“I think you’re overthinking it,” I say lightly, even as my gaze drifts back to the painting. The eyes stare back at me, unfinished and a little hollow.

Waiting.

For what, I’m not sure.

Amara hums like she doesn’t believe me, but lets it go. “Anyway, you owe me lunch,” she says, pushing herself upright. “Preferably something expensive to make up for your lack of emotional support.”

“I’m emotionally supporting you right now.”

“No, you’re emotionally existing next to me.”

“That counts.”

“It doesn’t.”

I smile, faint but real, and set my brush down. “Fine. Lunch. But if I go broke, I’m blaming your sculpture project.”

“You were already broke,” she shoots back instantly, and yeah—that’s fair.

We fall into an easy rhythm after that, cleaning up without needing to talk much. It’s always been like this with her. No pressure. No pretending. Just… simple.

I like simple.

It makes things easier to understand.

Easier to control.

As we step out of the studio, the noise shifts—less chaotic, more structured. Hallways filled with students moving in different directions, conversations overlapping, footsteps echoing against polished floors. The kind of environment where you can disappear if you don’t try too hard to stand out.

Which I don’t.

I never do.

“You’re zoning out again,” Amara says, nudging my shoulder as we walk.

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Very.”

She snorts, then starts talking again—something about a lecturer, something about deadlines—but my attention drifts, not completely gone, just… loosened.

There’s this strange feeling.

I can’t explain it properly.

Like a shift in the air. Subtle. Almost nonexistent. The kind of thing you’d ignore if you weren’t used to noticing small details.

But I am.

It’s not fear. Not exactly.

Just… awareness.

Like I’m being—

I stop walking.

Amara takes a few more steps before realizing and turning back. “Noah? Why did you—”

“I don’t know,” I interrupt quietly, glancing around.

Students pass by. Conversations continue. Nothing looks out of place.

Everything is normal.

So why does it feel like it’s not?

“What are you looking for?” she asks, her tone shifting slightly.

I shake my head after a second, forcing a small smile. “Nothing. Thought I forgot something.”

She studies me for a moment longer than usual, like she’s trying to decide if I’m lying.

I kind of am.

But not in a way I can explain.

“Okay…” she says slowly. “Well, unless what you forgot is money for my lunch, we’re leaving.”

That pulls a quiet huff of laughter out of me, and just like that, the feeling slips. Not gone, just… pushed aside.

“Right. Lunch,” I say, falling back into step beside her.

Normal again.

Or at least, it should be.

Because as we walk down the stairs and out into the open campus, I can’t shake the faint, lingering thought curling at the back of my mind—

That for a brief moment…

it felt like someone was watching me.

And somehow—

I don’t think I imagined it.