ℍ𝔸𝕌ℕ𝕋𝔼𝔻 - ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪᴋᴀᴇʟꜱᴏɴꜱ

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖞 𝖊𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙

❧ a little bit of possession and a soulmate's first meeting ❧

≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫

Amalie sat hunched over her sketchbook at the small table by the window, her fingers smudged with charcoal, streaks of black dust pressed into the crease of her knuckles and creeping up the inside of her wrist. A damp cloth sat nearby, folded and untouched. The charcoal stained beneath her fingernails, a stubborn tint she had long since given up trying to scrub out. A glass of blood rested beside her elbow, mostly full and now lukewarm, a faint film forming on the surface.

She had been drawing for most of the evening, if not longer. Lately, it was the only thing that helped. The repetition of it, the quiet focus, gave her something solid to hold onto when her thoughts began to unravel. Her left leg was tucked under her, her spine curved just slightly as she leaned in, eyes narrowed at the page. A pencil sharpener sat open nearby, dustings of graphite and wood curled inside it like gray confetti.

The sketch in front of her was more complete than most. It showed a narrow European street, cobblestones carefully shaded, buildings pressed close together with clay tile roofs and wrought-iron balconies. Flower boxes were spilling over the railings, vines trailing down toward the sidewalk. She had drawn every window with care, some open, some closed. A laundry line stretched between two apartments, shirts and bedsheets pinned in midair. A lamppost stood just off-center, one of the old ones with ornate detailing. She added a bench near the corner, its legs slightly uneven, as if worn down from all the people who sat on it to take a break.

This was how she let herself think about them. Her soulmates. She hadn't met all of them, not yet, but the connection was there. Instead of trying to draw their faces, which felt like an intrusion or an act of guesswork, she sketched the places they might have known. Old city corners with too many stories soaked into the stone. These were spaces she imagined they had once passed through, places that remembered the weight of footsteps.

She was shading the shadow beneath a doorway when she noticed Max shift in the chair near the window. He was sitting in the seat he always used, the one she had put there so he or Ana could watch the outside world when she was cooped up in her apartment. His posture was relaxed, at least on the surface, one leg stretched out, arms draped loosely along the armrests. But his fingers tapped against the wood, just enough to break the stillness. His mouth was pressed into a line, eyes fixed on something out the window that she doubted he could even see clearly.

She glanced at him once, just long enough to register the change in his breathing, the way he held himself differently tonight. Something about it was quieter than usual. Not the silence he used to retreat into, but something different.

And then, he spoke.

"Do you ever think about making us tangible?"

The sound of his voice pulled her attention hard enough that she stopped mid-stroke. Her pencil hung just above the page, the unfinished line suddenly too harsh to look at. She blinked once, the words catching her off guard.

She turned in her seat, shifting her leg to the floor, and looked at him more fully. He didn't meet her eyes. His gaze stayed on the window, the last sliver of daylight casting a pale orange line across his shoulder. His jaw moved slightly, as if he was working through the question even after saying it aloud. The tension in his fingers had spread to his wrist now, his hand curling in a slow, uncertain motion. He looked tired. Or maybe he had just grown more still than usual, like the restlessness had burned out for a while.