Emotional Deep Drawings Novels & Stories

I know, it's not always easy for a new student who just moved from another country. He is drawing something. "Hey, Edwin." I take a seat beside him. "You wanna see my drawing?" He covers the page with his thumb. "No. But show me if you want." I reply. He uncovers the page, straightening the sketch book. Jesus Christ. He drew Emilia and Jake. His eyes are opened and her eyes are closed. Why? They are kissing. "It looks__real. You draw well, boy." Edwin smiles, looking a bit shy. "Thanks."

To remember who I was underneath all the lies. My mother's hands. The way she twisted them when she was nervous. The view from my bedroom window at home. The tree that bloomed every spring. Damien's face. I didn't mean to draw him. But my hand moved on its own. The sharp line of his jaw. The intensity of his eyes. The way his mouth looked when he was thinking. Serious. Almost sad. I drew him at the altar. During the dance. Standing by the windows on the phone.

“I will not let him destroy me.” I picked up my tablet and started sketching again, each design sharper, bolder, more confident than the last. My fingers moved with a mix of rage and longing, creating delicate yet fierce lines that mirrored how I felt inside. Every piece was a story: my anger, my heartbreak, my obsession, my drive.

I couldn't sleep. Desperate for an escape, I grabbed a sheet of heavy art paper and began drawing. My hands shook as I began to draw, letting my raw emotion guide the strokes. Within minutes, James's face began to emerge from the stark white paper. I stared intensely into his eyes through the charcoal lines, feeling a dangerous, intoxicating connection to a ghost.

My imagination is running wild. I should step away from this window. I’m starting to feel like a creep. Like I’m three seconds away from becoming Joe fucking Goldberg. Maybe I should just go to the studio and get this out of my system. I should draw her again, like I don’t already have a whole sketchbook full of her face, her body, that damn smile that fills my heart with warmth. But it’s never enough. It’s Ava. And she’s a fucking masterpiece. So of course, I’m going to draw her.

Scarred, rough, and dangerous. The wind clawed at the wooden shutters of Fae Jackson’s cabin, dragging long fingers of pine and mist against the glass. She sat cross-legged on the couch in nothing but a threadbare cotton shirt, speckled in paint from her latest project. A bottle of red wine lay half-finished on the coffee table beside her sketchbook, pages filled with unsettling shadows and eyes that did not belong to any man she had ever met. But she had felt them, watching. Especially near the woods.

After studying both layout options on the paper, my hand ends up pointing directly to Ada’s custom drawing. "The data doesn't mean your drawing tracks as technically superior to a professional wolf's work. My heart just calculated that if my finger wore a wedding ring your own claws designed from scratch, my mouth could easily show off to the entire circuit and tell every wolf that my alpha husband engineered my jewelry for my life. This asset doesn't just track as a basic diamond ring, it operates as permanent, living proof of his supreme love for my spirit." Ada's internal wolf is completely overjoyed from receiving my high flattery.

He began to draw. His hand moved rapidly, the black charcoal scratching loudly against the heavy white paper. But today, the lines didn't form twisted roots or chaotic trees. Instead, he found himself drawing thick, overlapping lines of black, forming a heavy, iron circle. In the center of the circle was a tiny, faint outline of a bird, its wings clipped, its head bowed. He stared at the drawing, a sudden wave of deep, suffocating grief washing over him.

I saw Brenda sitting on the floor, sniffing her tears. I tried touching her. “Why did you bring back her memory?” she asked. “I didn't know. I was just hallucinating,” I replied. “Hallucinating with my feelings,” she scoffed. “I'm sorry.” I placed my hand on her shoulder. “It's okay.” “I'm so sorry, momma,” I pleaded, hugging her. After wiping her tears, she stood up laughing. I punched her in her stomach. “Come on, stop it,” she giggled.

It makes me want to cry. A painting of me. The central figure—a solitary face—emerges from a backdrop of deep, brooding colors that seem to absorb all light. My eyes, brimming with raw, unspoken emotions, the intensity. The rich, dark hues of the canvas, ranging from shadowy blues to somber grays, so somber, melancholic atmosphere, amplifying the depth of sadness in the eyes, my eyes. So many details, I look tortured but at the same time there's something free about the painting and my eyes they look bright and happy. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.