The world outside was loud, but Alara's room was a tomb of silence.
The only sound was the soft scratch of a graphite pencil against grain. Alara didn't mind the charcoal stains on her fingertips or the ache in her neck. Her entire universe was centered on the paper before her.
She was drawing a jawline so sharp it could cut glass. It was a face the world adored—a face belonging to a man born on a chilly March morning, under the sign of Aries. To the world, he was a star. To Alara, he was the only reason she woke up in the morning.
In a middle-class home like hers, dreams were luxuries people couldn't afford. You were expected to study, help with the chores, and eventually disappear into a quiet marriage. But behind this closed door, Alara was a creator.
She reached for her Pop-up Memory Book.
It wasn't just a scrapbook; it was a masterpiece of paper engineering. She flipped a page, and a miniature paper stage rose up.
March 30: His birthday.
The Favorite Color: Blue, like a clear sky.
The Scent: Cedarwood and musk.
The Small Habits: How he bit his lower lip when he was nervous.
Alara knew everything. She knew he had graduated with a degree in Performing Arts. She knew he loved trekking. She knew the exact date his first song hit the charts. It wasn't an obsession to her; it was a map of a life she wished she could share.
"You're so far away," she whispered, her thumb brushing over the sketch's paper cheek. "But in here, you're mine."
Suddenly, a sharp knock shattered the silence.
"Alara! Your parcel is here!" her mother shouted from the hallway.
Alara's heart leaped. She shoved the sketchbook under her pillow and smoothed out her bedsheet. In this house, her art was a secret. If they found out she spent her days drawing a man from a different continent, they would call her mad.
She opened the door and found a small, dented cardboard box on the floor. She had ordered basic craft supplies—glue sticks, some cardstock, and charcoal.
She retreated to her desk and sliced the tape open. Inside, nestled between the bubble wrap, was something she hadn't ordered.
It was a small, cylindrical object wrapped in dull gold foil.
Alara peeled back the wrapper. Inside lay a piece of chalk. But it wasn't the dusty white chalk used in classrooms. This was a deep, honeyed gold. It felt warm to the touch, almost as if it had been sitting in the sun for hours.
"A mistake?" she wondered, turning the golden stick over in her hand.
She didn't know it yet, but this misplaced item was about to tear a hole through her reality.