June had never shown anyone her sketchbook.
Not fully, anyway. A peek here, a scribble there—just enough to pass it off as hobby art or idle doodles. But the truth was, her sketchbook was her map of everything she'd ever felt but couldn't say out loud. It was where she stored days she didn't want to forget, and sometimes the ones she did.
So when she pressed send on the file marked sketches_for_Rhett.zip, her entire body tensed, as if the act of sharing it had made her skin transparent.
Seconds passed. Then a full minute.
Then her phone buzzed.
Rhett: Holy shit. Are you serious right now?
She sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, cursor hovering over the chat window. Her heart thudded like it wanted to claw its way out.
June: …Is that bad?
Rhett: No. It's unreal. I've never seen anything like this.
Rhett: I mean it. I'm speechless.
Her face flushed with a heat she couldn't blame on the blankets. She reached for the tea beside her—cold. Of course. She'd been holding her breath since she uploaded the file.
Rhett: Is that… me?
She bit her bottom lip.
June: Yeah. From the video call we had last week. You looked like you were about to laugh but you didn't. That moment stuck with me.
The typing dots reappeared instantly.
Rhett: That's the most specific and wonderful thing anyone's ever said to me.
She smiled, despite herself.
Rhett: Can I call?
Her hand hesitated over the touchpad. But then she clicked "Accept."
His voice came through, slightly breathless, as if he'd run up a hill made entirely of emotion. "June. These drawings. I don't even know where to start."
"I wasn't sure you'd like them," she said softly.
"I love them," he said. "They're raw. Detailed. Intimate. Like you've captured something I didn't know I was showing."
She hesitated, then admitted, "I don't draw people often. Not like that. Not unless I feel something real."
There was a pause. Not awkward—just charged.
"I feel like I've been seen," he said finally. "Not looked at. Seen."
That made her chest tighten. "That's all I ever want to do with my art."
He sighed. "Okay, tell me everything. What's the story behind the one where it's just our hands, reaching?"
"That was from that night you sent me the demo," she said. "I remember putting my hand up to the screen like an idiot. It was 1AM. I think I was hoping you'd feel it."
"I did," he said. "I just didn't know how to say it."
She smiled and flipped open her real-life sketchbook, fingers trailing over the charcoal lines. "I almost didn't include that one. It felt too... exposed."
"Please don't ever censor what you feel for me."
The words dropped like pebbles into water, sending quiet ripples between them.
"I won't," she whispered. "Not anymore."
There was a rustle on his end, the sound of movement and a drawer sliding open. "You want to know something crazy?" he asked.
"Always."
"I've been writing a song," he said. "But it didn't have lyrics. I didn't know what the song was about. Until now."
Her heart thudded again.
"Can I... hear it?"
He hesitated, just a beat. Then the soft, shaky sound of strings being adjusted. A few quick plucks. Then—his voice. Low, tender, carrying a melody that sounded like the first breath after crying.
The song was simple. Soft. A guitar and a boy trying to make sense of what connection meant when it lived in electricity and screen light. But the moment he sang, "Your lines draw out my edges / Like I'm more than what I say," June felt her eyes sting.
When he finished, she didn't speak right away.
"June?"
"I'm crying," she whispered.
"Is that okay?"
"It's perfect."
He exhaled a quiet laugh. "You give me courage. Do you know that?"
She blinked away the tears. "You give me a place to land."
They sat in silence for a long while, the kind that doesn't need to be filled. Then she said, "There's one more sketch I didn't send."
"Oh?"
She turned the page and looked at it: a double-page spread. Their two faces in profile, noses almost touching. Her curls blending into the outline of stars. His freckles etched like constellations. A single glowing thread between them.
"It's us," she said, her voice catching. "If we ever meet. If this isn't just a maybe."
He was silent again.
Then: "Send it."
She took a picture. Hit send.
He gasped.
"I'm framing this," he said.
"You haven't even seen it in high res."
"I don't need to," he replied. "It already lives in my chest."
She laughed—light, full, bright as moonlight on water.
And just like that, something between them shifted. Became more solid. Less digital. Still distant, yes—but no longer fragile.
His voice was quiet again. "You know what I love most about your drawings?"
"What?"
"They don't just show what we look like. They show what we are."
She pressed her fingers to the screen again, half expecting to feel warmth.
"You're my favorite thing to draw," she said.
"And you're my favorite reason to write," he whispered.
They didn't say goodbye that night.
They just stayed in the call, listening to each other breathe—until sleep finally took them both.