Forest

Chapter Eleven

"You... you should also eat something." Her voice is soft, trembling with hesitation. I glance up, catching sight of the bowl of freshly cut fruit resting on her folded knees. She doesn't meet my gaze; her focus is locked on stabbing pieces of fruit onto a fork, each motion deliberate, as if it's the only thing keeping her steady.

"You eat first. I'll eat later." My words come out harsher than I intend, and regret flashes through me instantly.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, her voice barely audible. She dares to look up this time, her eyes flitting to mine before darting away. "You haven't eaten in days. I am just worried about your health." I say, but I still feel like my voice is too rude against her.

"It's... a lot of food for one person," she says, stumbling over the words, her eyes looking over the plate of food infront of her.

I pause, unsure how to respond. "You can tell me what you don't like," I say finally, my voice softer now, almost coaxing. "I'll eat whatever you don't want." It's a simple offer, but it feels like more. Maybe if she answers, I can give her what she wants and learn something—anything—about her in the process.

Her gaze flickers toward me, uncertain, before she speaks. "Milk. Coffee. Toast and ham." Her voice is quieter than before, but there's something firmer in the way she delivers the list.

"That's what you don't like?" I ask, watching her carefully. She nods, and the faintest hint of relief crosses her face when I don't press further.

"I'm sorry," she says again, her words tinged with guilt. "I know you did your best."

A small smile pulls at my lips. It's barely there, but it feels like a triumph. After days of silence and distance, I've learned something about her. It's small, insignificant even, but it's hers.

Reaching for the tray, I move slowly, deliberately, my hand wrapping around the cup of coffee. Her eyes track every movement, wary and alert. I lift the cup to my lips and take a sip, the bitter taste grounding me.

"You like black coffee," she says suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence. There's a pause, and then she adds, almost under her breath, "Probably because it's as black as your soul."

My eyes snap to hers at the unexpected comment. Fear flares in her expression, wide and unguarded, and I know she is freigthed of what would happen. Instead, a laugh escapes me, sharp and unbidden.

"It probably is," I admit my voice as neutral as it could sounds. "Black coffee is my favorite."

And then I hear it—a soft sound, hesitant and fleeting, but unmistakable. She giggles.

The sound surprises me, catching me off guard, and when I look at her, I see it: a shy smile spreading across her lips.

- 

He left. He said it was for work, something urgent, something that couldn't wait, and he'd be gone all night. But before he walked out, he turned to me, his face tight with worry, and begged me to stay in the room. Begged me, and I coudn't find out way.

"I'm afraid something will happen to you," he said. "Promise me you'll stay here. On the bed."

I promised. How could I not? He looked at me with those piercing eyes, so desperate, so scared, as though I might disappear the moment he closed the door. 

Still, I think he knew I'd struggle to keep my promise. That I'd get restless or bored, maybe even tempted to leave the safety of the room. Trying to make sense of where I am. So he tried to make things easier.

Before he left, he handed me a small sketchbook, its pages crisp and empty, and a few pencils with sharp, precise tips. "To keep your hands busy," he murmured, almost like an afterthought. Then, as he turned to go, he paused and reached for the remote, placing it carefully in my hand. "You can watch anything you want. Just... stay here, okay?"

He left some food for me—a freshly prepared salad and a yogurt topped with muesli. A few bottles of water stood waiting on my nightstand. 

And now here I am, doing exactly as I said I would.

The TV hums softly in the background, playing a stream of gentle music. The volume is low, just enough to fill the void but not enough to overwhelm.

I sit cross-legged on the bed, the sketchbook resting against my thighs, my pencil moving almost of its own accord. The act of drawing keeps my hands occupied, my mind just busy enough to stop the creeping unease. But the fear is still there, hovering just outside my focus, waiting to press in.

I start sketching his face. I didn't mean to at first—it just happened, the lines forming naturally, almost instinctively. His sharp jawline. His lips, set in that firm but gentle way I've come to recognize. And his eyes. I linger there the longest.

I try to capture them as they are—icy blue and intense, holding a depth I can't quite put into words. I don't have colored pencils, so I rely on layering and shading, building depth with every stroke of the graphite. The harder I press, the darker the lines, until his eyes seem to almost leap off the page.

The hours slip by without me noticing. One sketch turns into two, then three, until a small collection begins to grow beside me. Each one feels like a piece of him, fragments of the man I've only just begun to know but can't seem to stop thinking about.

Between drawings, I glance at the TV. A familiar song comes on, its melody soft and nostalgic. I hum along at first, then start to sing quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. It feels strange, singing here in the silence, but it also feels... steadying, somehow.

The light in the room shifts as the hours pass. At some point, I set my pencil down and stretch, my back aching slightly from sitting still for so long. I glance at the door, the lock he checked twice before leaving, and then back to the sketches scattered on the bed.

I feel the weight of the emptiness around me, but I keep drawing. It's the only thing keeping the fear at bay, the only thing that makes the minutes feel bearable.

I wonder where he is, what he's doing. He said he'd be gone all night. He trusted me to stay here, and I don't want to break that trust. But I have no idea why I should listen to him, I don't even know him but I still listen. 

So I turn back to my sketchbook. My hand moves across the page again, the pencil tracing his features once more. And as I draw, the music plays on, a quiet reminder that I'm not entirely alone.