22. muse

The air in the apartment felt a little heavier that morning, the kind of quiet that comes with inevitable goodbyes. Claire and Chase were leaving for the States later that afternoon, their trip to Toronto felt too short.

Mandy had insisted on hosting a small farewell brunch at their apartment, and by the time Hamzah and I arrived, the table was already overflowing with pancakes, fruit, and pastries. Claire was sipping on coffee, her suitcase tucked by the door, while Chase was sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone.

"You guys are really leaving, huh?" Mandy said, her voice tinged with mock sadness as she set down another plate of muffins. Claire smiled, though there was a wistful edge to it. "It's not like we won't be back. Toronto's too fun to stay away for long." "Plus," Chase added, grinning, "we gotta come back and see how Martin screws up the next trivia night." Martin, who was seated at the counter, threw a crumpled napkin at him. "I don't screw up. I make it interesting."

We all laughed, but there was a bittersweet undertone to the conversation. Saying goodbye was always hard, even when you knew it wasn't forever.

Hamzah leaned over to me as I poured myself a cup of coffee. "You good?"

I nodded, though I could feel a tightness in my chest. It wasn't just about Claire and Chase leaving-it was the reminder of how transient everything felt sometimes, how people could drift in and out of your life no matter how much you wanted them to stay.

By the time we said our final goodbyes, the mood had shifted from playful to somber. Claire gave me a tight hug, her warmth radiating through me.

"Keep in touch, okay?" she said, pulling back to look me in the eye. "And keep killing it with your art. You've got something special." "Thanks," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Safe travels." Chase was next, pulling me into a one-armed hug. "Don't let Hamzah drive you too crazy." "That's impossible," I said with a small smile.

Hamzah and I walked back to our apartment in relative silence, the weight of the goodbye settling between us. He seemed to sense my mood because he didn't press me to talk. Instead, he tossed his keys onto the counter when we got home and gestured toward the living room.

"Go grab your stuff," he said. "I'm putting on your favorite show. You can work while I pretend to care about it." I rolled my eyes but smiled nonetheless. "You're the worst, you know that?" "Yeah, yeah," he said, already flipping through the streaming options. "But I'm your worst."

Later that evening, I found myself surrounded by a collection of my art pieces from the past few months. It was for my final project at school-a portfolio showcasing my growth as an artist since I'd arrived in Toronto.

The pieces ranged from quick sketches of people on the subway to more elaborate charcoal portraits. There were landscapes, abstract experiments, and even a few pages of Hamzah, captured in his most unguarded moments.

Hamzah had fallen asleep on the couch while I worked, his head tilted back, mouth slightly open. I glanced at him, a small smile tugging at my lips. He'd been my muse in more ways than one, even if he didn't realize it.

I carefully arranged the pieces on the floor, trying to decide on the order. There was something deeply satisfying about seeing all the work laid out like this-a tangible reminder of everything I'd created, everything I'd felt.

One piece caught my eye-a sketch of Hamzah leaning against the kitchen counter, his expression thoughtful, almost vulnerable. I'd drawn it one afternoon when he wasn't paying attention, and it had become one of my favorites.

"You're staring at that one pretty hard," Hamzah's voice broke through my thoughts. I turned to find him awake, his eyes half-lidded but alert. "I didn't mean to wake you," I said, setting the sketch down. He shrugged, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. "You didn't. What's up with all this?" "Final project," I explained. "I'm trying to figure out the layout." Hamzah got up and wandered over, his gaze sweeping across the collection. He paused when he reached the sketch of himself, picking it up carefully. "You drew me," he said, his voice soft. "Yeah," I admitted, feeling a flush rise to my cheeks. "You're... easy to draw." He looked at me, a small smile playing on his lips. "I don't know about that, but it's cool." "Thanks," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. He set the sketch down and crouched next to me, studying the other pieces. "You've got a theme here, you know. Movement, connection. It's like... all of this is alive." I blinked at him, surprised. "You think so?" "Definitely," he said, meeting my eyes. "You're telling stories here, even if you don't realize it."

His words stayed with me long after he'd gone back to the couch. As I worked late into the night, arranging and rearranging my pieces, I realized he was right. These weren't just drawings-they were fragments of a life, captured in moments of stillness and motion.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt proud of what I'd created.