Chapter 1: The Ache Before Love
- Jan 2
- 4 min read
The studio was tranquil that day. The quiet that didn’t demand silence but invited it. A gentle hush that hovered over every desk and every breath. Elias liked it this way. The world outside always felt loud and rushed, as if it were sprinting toward something it hadn't even decided was worth the race. But here, under the warm overhead lights, with the soft humming of the kettle in the corner and the scratch of pencils against paper, time slowed.
He sat in his usual spot. Third desk from the window, near the back. It gave him a full view of the room, but most importantly, it gave him a full view of her.
Aisha.
She wasn’t speaking to anyone today. Just her sketchpad, her hand, her silence. The other illustrators filled the room with casual laughter, Spotify playlists, and half-hearted grumbles about deadlines. But not Aisha. She drew with the focus of someone trying to remember something she wasn’t supposed to forget. Elias had seen her like this before. He had been watching her for months. Not in the creepy, possessive way most people fear.
He was respectful. Distant. Terrified.
Because watching her made him feel everything he didn’t want to admit he felt. She had this calm about her that rattled him. A quiet that wasn’t empty, but complete. Full of depth, of things unsaid. Of things he longed to ask but never had the courage to. She would tilt her head slightly when she got into flow, as if the image in her mind was whispering secrets and she was leaning in to listen. Her locks were up in a messy bun today, a pencil stuck through them, barely holding. One lock had fallen, brushing the side of her cheek every time she moved. Elias wanted to reach across the room and tuck it behind her ear. But he didn’t. He just watched.
'She hadn’t even touched me, and already something in me was trembling. Wanting.'
He thought it, then hated himself for it. He was too old to be this scared. Twenty-eight and still stuck in the purgatory between noticing and acting. Between knowing and risking.
Elias had always been good at observation. It came with being a graphic designer who had stopped designing for clients and started planning for stability. He could see composition, tension, palette, and contrast. He saw what most people missed. Like how Aisha wore the same three rings in different combinations depending on her mood. Or how she only used black ink for emotional pieces and a blue pencil when she didn’t want to feel too much. Today it was black ink. Whatever she was sketching, it wasn’t light.
He looked away when she stretched her arms overhead. Her shirt lifted slightly. Brown skin, soft curve of her lower back. He swallowed hard, ashamed of how much he memorized from stolen glances. This wasn’t love. Not yet. It was ache.
He pulled out his own sketchbook, but the page stared back blankly, taunting. He hadn’t drawn anything personal in weeks. Months, maybe. The commissions had slowed. Clients were tightening budgets, and he had been too tired to chase leads.
Too tired to care.
But today, something pulsed beneath his skin. The need to draw was loud again. When she got up and left, a quiet nod to the manager, bag slung over her shoulder, eyes still somewhere else, Elias waited exactly five minutes. Then he flipped to a new page and started sketching.
Not the room. Not a concept. Her. From memory.
Her eyes first. Almond-shaped, observant. Then her lips. Full. Thoughtful. Her neck. The curve. The posture she always carried was that of someone who had learned to protect herself without becoming bitter. Elias didn't need a reference photo. She had already been etched somewhere beneath his ribs. When he was done, he stared at the drawing. She wasn’t smiling. But the ache in her eyes was clear.
He closed the sketchbook. And hid it.
That night, sleep came slowly. He lay in bed, arms over his head, the fan spinning shadows across his ceiling. Toronto lights bled through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the wall. The night was warm.
Sticky.
He thought about her hands. Her silence. Her black ink. Then sleep took hold of him, and the corridor appeared.
Long. Endless. Dimly lit by sconces that looked like something out of an old European mansion. The air smelled of dust and something floral. Maybe jasmine. Maybe memory.
He walked slowly, barefoot. The floor was polished wood, cold against his soles. On either side, doors. Nine in total. Four left. Four right. One at the very end.
Each door was different. One had peeling green paint. Another had polished mahogany with brass handles. One was deep blue with scratch marks. One was plain white, but locked with three latches. None of them had names.
Only silence.
As he reached the end of the hallway, he paused. There was a mirror beside the ninth door.
He looked into it. But it wasn’t just him. It was him, and not him.
His eyes were different. Sharper. His posture is more relaxed. There was mischief in the reflection’s grin. Behind the mirror version of himself, shadows moved. Figures stood in the distance.
Nine shapes.
Watching. Waiting.
Elias stepped back. His heart began to pound. A slow, steady drumbeat that echoed in the corridor. Then the door at the end creaked open—just an inch. Light spilled out. Warm. Golden. Like late afternoon sun. It didn’t calm him; it terrified him, and he didn’t know why. He turned to run, but his legs felt heavy. A voice whispered behind him.
Not loud. Not cruel. Just soft.
“You can’t hide from what’s inside you, Elias.”
He woke with a gasp. Sweat soaked his pillow. His sketchbook lay open on the floor.
And Aisha’s face stared up at him from the page.
He stared back.
And for the first time in a long time, Elias felt like something inside him had started to move.
Crack.
Shift.
Ache.
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