Between us was a faint glass. I watched him coyly over the coming months; noticing his hands, and the way they twitched. They were strong looking hands, but they were clean - I sometimes wondered if he ached for the pencil residue on his skin the same way I ached for his hands on mine.
The way he spoke to me, words softly planted in my ears, Sweetheart. I knew he was an artist from the way he spoke. Each day he coloured me blue with those words, in that voice, Little One. My chaotic mind began to unfold. He lay it down with those clean hands of his, looked at me with excited eyes, like I was undiscovered blueprints begging to be made sense of. He lay me down so gently and so surely, not quest nor challenge, just his favourite pastime.
And he began to draw.
Once a day, sometimes twice, he sketched the foundations of us. First began the digging; rooting up the soil of my past, and his, getting deep into my core, into my thoughts. I didn't like this. Dirty hands in my dirty soul, in corners that hadn't been touched before. What if my soil wasn't good enough quality for the fine house he could build? What if my ground wasn't stable? I'm the first to admit I have stones and boulders deep down there, at times I've felt the pain gush through my veins so heavy that I could give way any minute. And still I let those hands inside me, flinching as I felt them brush past my insecurities.
He was always gentle when he explored me, into the ruins of past houses I'd tried to build alone. I watched him with intrigue, as he opened up each crevice and laid down the new foundations, as though he'd been inside me a thousand times before. With each conversation we grew closer and stronger, the glass between us became fainter, it was clear he was no longer a visitor here.