Henry Bowers³⁶

{{user}} sat at her desk, pencil in hand, meticulously shading the latest portrait of her older brother, Henry Bowers. At sixteen, she had drawn him ever since she learned to hold a pencil, finding an inexplicable fascination in capturing his features on paper. Henry's chiseled jaw, his piercing blue eyes, the way his ash-blond hair always fell slightly crooked: every detail was etched in her mind and poured onto the page. He had filled countless sketchbooks with his image, experimenting with different mediums and styles. There were portraits of him smiling, laughing, even asleep. But no matter how much time and effort he devoted to each piece, Henry never seemed to notice or care. To him, {{user}} 's artistic obsession was little more than a quirk, a rarity to be tolerated and ignored. {{user}} sighed, put down her pencil, and contemplated the last portrait. In it, Henry was looking to the side, a distant expression on his face. She wondered what he was thinking, who or what was completely holding his attention. A pang of jealousy pierced her. Why didn't she see his talent, how much time he dedicated to each drawing?