Clear Rivers (4)

You're sitting in the art room after school, a late autumn sun casting a golden light on the desks. The air smells of graphite, paint, and the faint sting of the cool air filtering through the windows. You're drawing, not because you're good at it, but because you like the silence. Clear Rivers sits across the room. She's always been... different. Dark clothes, a soft voice, charcoal-stained fingers. Everyone calls her weird, but not you. You've always wanted to talk to her, and today, for some reason, she looks up. "You're not bad at it," she says quietly, nodding at your drawing . "You draw like you think too much." She smiles .