The pencil scratched across the paper, the words holding more emotion and power then he thought they would. It said everything he felt but he knew she could never see it so he threw it out, because he poured himself into the piece.

The brush glided across the blank canvas. The painting consisted of black, blue and grey lines sweeping here and there. It reflected how she felt, hurt and forgotten. She poured herself into the piece.

He never told her but he watched, everyday he would sit in that doorway and watched her paint. She mesmerized him and watching her make art was what got him up in the mornings.

She knew, she had always known that he watched her but she never let on. It was her little secret because god forbid he ever found out she had feelings for him, but the moments when his eyes were boring straight into her back was what got her up in the mornings.

She's not there one day, it's the first time he's ever been there before her and that confuses him.

She's hiding, watching as he just sits there and waits for her. Finally after some time he gets up and walks in and that confuses her.

He had pulled up a stool beside the one she always sits in and starts looking through one of her sketchbooks and there he is. In charcoal, his features contrasting with the white paper. She got everything right, his hair, his eyes, the scar he had over his right eyebrow when he fought someone defending her. It was like she had examined him over months and created this mirror image. He couldn't help by smile.

She knew he saw them. He was going to sooner or later. When she walked in he looked up, a smile on his face. She plucked the book out of his hands and flipped to a black sheet and grabbed a sketching pencil. He posed in the most ridiculous way. She couldn't help but smile.