She knew his face so well. The curve of his lips, the way his hair framed his furious face, the slant of his slate eyes framed in a raging yellow. He was so beautiful.
To her.
Her finger traced a stream of black on her wall as she tenderly sketched his face. His tiny horns, his razor tipped teeth, the sharp points of his face.
Did he even look at her the same way?
Did he look at her, just as he looked at her friend? Her lusus sighed from her spot on a rug, nestling into her tail. It was late.
But she couldn't get him out of her head.
"Why are you so purrfect," she whispered, nail glancing off a shoulder.
A picture was something. But more than anything, she preferred the real thing.