002: A new pulse

Liana’s POV

(A day ago…)

“Ma, the food is burning.”

Maria’s voice broke through the haze, soft at first—then louder, sharper, like she was right beside me. Because she was.

I blinked and turned. She stood next to me, her brow creased in concern, wooden spoon in hand. The scent of scorched oil clung to the air. I hadn’t heard her come in. I hadn’t heard anything. I’d been standing there for nearly thirty minutes, completely lost in thought.

I quickly shut off the burner and stepped back.

“Please take over,” I said quietly, rinsing my hands in the sink. My voice was calm, but my chest still felt like it was cracking open.

Maria nodded without a word. She’d done this before—many times. My house help, yes, but more than that. A quiet companion. She had a way of knowing what I was thinking without me ever saying it.

As I left the kitchen, the fog in my mind thickened.

It wasn’t just about Matteo this time.

It was him.

The man at the gym.

His voice still echoed in my head:

“So tell me why I should let a random woman with raccoon eyes and an expired pass card into my gym before sunrise?”

God. The way he said it—dry humor layered over quiet intensity. The way he looked at me, like I was both a puzzle and a person.

Just the memory of it sent a shiver down my spine.

I didn’t know how to process the way my body reacted. The heat. The ache. The need. It terrified me. So I ran—to the only place that made sense.

My sketchbook.

Drawing was my only form of truth. Curves. Shadows. Tangled limbs. Sometimes erotic, always honest. My pencil told the stories my mouth was too afraid to speak.

Once, early in our marriage, I showed Matteo a sketch. A woman, back arched, hands gripping a balcony rail. Her body was covered in bruises and constellations.

He stared at it like it was filth.

“This is vulgar,” he’d said, disgust curling his lip. “Draw something that won’t embarrass us if someone finds it.”

That was the last time I ever shared my art with him.

Because those drawings weren’t just images. They were survival. My only safe confession.

Later that evening, I wandered into the garden with a watering can. I didn’t touch the flowers. I watered the weeds.

Three years into this marriage, and they were the only things that grew without being asked.

This was my life.

Wake. Run. Cook. Draw. Wilt. Repeat.

But today felt different. Like my body was in motion, but my mind was elsewhere—haunted by quiet eyes and a voice that lingered longer than it should have.

For the first time in years, my thoughts weren’t centered on pain. They were centered on something…else.

Someone else.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I got out of bed and opened my sketchbook again. I wasn’t sure what I was drawing—my hand moved faster than my thoughts, chasing something I couldn’t name.

Lines flowed.

Shadows formed.

Time dissolved.

I didn’t even notice I’d been kneeling for over an hour until the ache in my legs jolted me upright.

I stood, blinking, breath caught.

And froze.

It wasn’t one of my usual faceless silhouettes.

It wasn’t a fantasy.

It wasn’t a memory.

It was him.

The man from the gym.

Etched in charcoal—broad shoulders, sharp jawline, and those unreadable eyes that saw deeper than they should. Somehow, without realizing it, I had drawn him.

Alive on the page.

Staring back at me.

And I realized—this wasn’t just a sketch.

It was the first time in years I had drawn something without pain.

I didn’t know what to call this feeling. But I knew one thing for sure—

This wasn’t love at first sight.

This was loss at first sight.