Miles Morales Drawing With Hoodie นิยาย & เรื่องราว

It was our code. I opened it. Louis stood there. He looked tired. He had gloves on. "What did it say?" I whispered, pulling him inside. He held up the paper in a plastic bag. It was a crayon drawing. A child's drawing. It was a house. Our house. And in the window, three stick figures. A mommy, a daddy, and a little girl. But the daddy stick figure had a big red X over him. At the bottom, in messy, grown-up writing, it said: **He's never coming back.**

Across from us, Clay was already asleep, noise-canceling headphones askew and a half-full bag of pretzels clutched in his palm. I pulled my sketchbook out of my bag. Its pages carried the stains of snow, firelight, and fear—each a testament to moments between chaos and resilient hope. But this page, I resolved, would be different. As I began to draw, I felt the pencil glide effortlessly across the paper as if it possessed a wisdom greater than mine. I created a silhouette of pine trees, their forms reclaimed by the gentle embrace of snow and the promise of bloom. The roots delved deep into a mountain of layered fabric swatches—canvas, hemp, wool, silk—textiles that whispered tales of enduran

"They're cute. They look like little grumpy dwarves." The response sounded so childish, Midnight broke into a soft smile. Ryder looked at him from the corner of her eyes and felt satisfied with herself. The dim light coming from the light bulb was more than enough to see the young man's physique. He was wearing plain jeans, and a dark hoodie, the hood of which was thrown over his head hiding most of his face, only the fair skin of his jaw and a pair of pink lips could be seen. Over the hoodie, Midnight was wearing a dark jacket, his hands deep in his pockets. When he took the chips, Ryder saw the little mole on his thumb and unconsciously smiled.

Mendel would look through them carefully before giving them back, never saying anything about the pictures themselves but sometimes bringing up a specific drawing weeks later, as if the drawings were a language they were both learning. All of today's sketches were of clothes. Silhouettes that were ready for travel and have pockets deep enough to hide something valuable, such as a passport, a ticket, or proof of escape. Hooded coats that made it seem like you could be anonymous. Dresses with high, bold collars that made you look like you were going to a better place than where you were. Angela's pencil slid over a new sheet, making a sleeve from memory. The movement was calming in a way that

I withdraw my book and pencil case from my bag, neatly placing them on the table, I absently draw on the borders of my page as I wait for everyone else to settle in. The chair beside me is pulled out as someone sits beside me. His scent washes over me and I close my eyes briefly, letting myself indulge in the smell of him. "Good morning," Miles greets. I turn to look at him. He's wearing his trademark jacket like he does every day and his dark jeans. He's wearing a beanie, his unruly hair sticking out beneath it. His cheeks are red from the chilly temperature outside. I hate that he looks really cute.

"Yeah, well. I like the thrill." "Then you're in the right place." I nod toward the door. "You're done." He stands and leans toward the mirror, checking the fresh ink. "Looks good," he says after a beat. "Guess you still got it." I smirk. "I never lost it." Miles grabs his hoodie off the chair. "Thanks, boss man. Once people see this, they'll be lining up at your door. Don't forget who sent 'em when it's time for my discount."

“Cool, can’t wait to talk hockey with him.” “What’s up” In saunters Miles wearing his favorite black jeans with holes in them, a black T-shirt and a baseball cap back to front, and his guitar slung over his shoulder. He’s the same build as Garrett and aside from the fact that Miles has Madi’s eyes, they are identical. He, however has zilch interest in hockey. He wants to make it big in the music industry and to be fair to him, he’s pretty mean on guitar and has a voice on him that makes the chicks fawn.

She moved an inch, getting a clearer view of the mural. It was a drawing of a woman but made out of leaves. Another, still on the same mural, showed the neckline of a woman with her arms folded, but the head was of flowers. Just like the tattoo on her toned curves. The next mural was a drawing of a woman's silhouette, but this time with stars. Hannah Morales was no expert in art, however, she had one word for the mural. Breathtaking. She sucked in her breath as her fingers carved along the lines of the drawing. She felt the blonde hover behind her, but she never once tore her gaze from the mural.

For a moment, everything felt normal again. “Mommy!” Mabel squealed as she ran to the car, Miles right behind her. “Hi, my loves,” I said, my voice softer than usual. I hugged them tightly as they climbed in, their warmth easing some of the tension in my chest. “Look, Mommy!” Miles said, holding up a crayon drawing. “I made a dinosaur!” “It’s amazing, sweetheart,” I said, ruffling his hair.

I exclaimed, my eyes tracing over the carefully scribbled drawing clutched in Mila's small hands. A bright grin split her face. "You think so?" "Definitely!" I affirmed, pointing at the tall, imposing figure in the center of the page. "This is Axel, right?" Mila giggled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Yeah, that's him. But I made him smile. He should do that more." I joined in her laughter, charmed by her depiction. "Couldn't agree more, Mila." "And that," Mila's tiny finger guided mine to the figure beside Axel, "is Dima. I drew a chef's hat on him because he's always so serious."