Some days, Zaya could draw the entire human form without ever touching desire. Tonight was one of those days.
She sat on the edge of her chair, elbows on her knees, staring down at the half-finished sketch sprawled across her desk. A woman's back: precise, balanced, graceful. The curve of the spine was perfect. The shading along the shoulder blade, clean. And yet, the entire piece felt… empty. No breath. No tension. No weight between the lines. She sighed, dropped the pencil, and leaned back.
Her apartment, small and quiet, buzzed faintly with a dying summer heat. Outside, the city moved: car horns, footsteps, a distant siren. Inside, everything stood still. Even the fan at the window was tired.
Intimacy.
That was the word she had scribbled in her sketchbook weeks ago, over and over again in a looping, impatient hand. A theme. A challenge. A dare to herself. She wanted to go deeper in her art, past the polished, academic gestures she'd mastered. She wanted skin that hummed, hands that hesitated, mouths that ached to speak but didn't. She wanted to draw what people felt but never said.
But instead, she kept making corpses. Beautiful, empty corpses.
She rose from the desk, padding barefoot to the mirror near the window. Her reflection met her: high cheekbones, locs twisted up, lips set in that near-expressionless calm she'd perfected. The long satin dress she'd laid out for the night clung to her skin like a whisper. It was elegant, almost severe. A statement. She didn't want to be looked at. She wanted to be seen.
Her phone vibrated on the counter.
[8:14 PM — Art & Architecture Gala — Hôtel Mercier.]
She closed her eyes for a moment. She hadn't even wanted to go. But her mentor had insisted: "You can't hide forever behind your work. You need tension in your life if you want to create anything real."
"Tension" As if that was something you could just go out and catch like a cab.
She went through the motions anyway. Makeup, subtle and warm. Perfume, just behind her ears. Heels because beauty demanded a little suffering. She slid her sketchbook into her bag, even though she knew she wouldn't open it. Still, it felt better having it close. Like armor.
By the time she locked the door behind her, the sky had begun to bruise with early twilight. The city lights were blinking awake. She stepped out into the evening, cool air licking her collarbone, and walked toward something she couldn't name yet, only feel, buzzing faintly beneath her skin.
She didn't know what she was looking for. But she knew what she was done with: small talk, polite nods, and men who touched her like they were following instructions off a box.
If tonight changed nothing, fine. She would survive.
But if someone looked at her the right way, not hungry, not impressed, just aware she wasn't sure what she'd do.
Maybe she'd break. Or maybe she'd finally start to make something real.