Free Drawn to Life by Elisabeth Wagner

out, and apologized, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I only went to pick it up, but then . . .” I tried an apologetic smile and added, “You draw damn well.”
    She looked at me as if she wanted to kill me, pressing the sketchbook to her chest as if her life depended on it. Her breath had quickened. Her posture was stiff and her eyes wide, but her pupils were only pinpoints. I hoped she wasn’t having a panic attack. Had I really infringed on her privacy that much?
    I felt like a big asshole for leafing through the book without her permission. Usually I didn’t do things like that. I mean, I would have been outraged, too, if someone didn’t respect my privacy. But I simply couldn’t stop myself. Once I’d started turning the pages, each sketch had pulled me onto the next. Her drawings were awesome. It was as if the deep emotions I sensed behind them were speaking to me. It was as if I were right there in them. With her.
    When she didn’t respond, I returned to my seat, but I couldn’t seem to quit staring. It was as if it were impossible not to. What an idiot—I was coming across as a clueless jerk. Maybe even a stalker.
    She was staring out the window. But I could tell by the tense way she held herself that she was aware of my gaze. And I must have stirred her curiosity, as well. I caught her throwing furtive, timid glances at me. Sometimes, when our glances met, I smiled, but she didn’t smile back. Her emerald eyes just lingered a little longer each time, and I thought I detected a spark of interest, which encouraged me to keep my gaze pointed in her direction.
    “I’m really sorry about what happened,” I finally said. “It was rude to open your book. I usually wouldn’t act like that, honest, but your drawings fascinated me.”
    Frowning at my words, she blinked, then shook her head and stared out the window again. But she kept casting those glances over at me.
    I should leave her alone. But there was something about her . . . I wanted her to look at me again. Then keep looking at me. I needed to see her eyes. I needed to hear her voice.
    “I’m Samuel, by the way . . . Sam,” I said, breaking the silence.
    Her gaze flickered, then she loosened the tight grip around the book and eventually placed it on the small table in front of her.
    My instincts continued to tell me to leave her alone. But I couldn’t. I looked from her to her luggage, a big backpack. She was traveling on a Eurail pass, most likely. But why would a woman like her journey alone?
    Suddenly, she froze, her body tensing again. She fisted her hands so tight that her knuckles turned white. Droplets of blood appeared on her palms as her nails pressed deeply into her skin. It was almost too much to watch. Why did she inflict so much pain on herself? I scrambled for some way to distract her from whatever thoughts had led to her reaction.
    “Are you going to Budapest? Or are you connecting there?” I realized my intentions went beyond distracting her. I also just wanted to know. I suspected my friendliness, though, was probably only frightening her. Why wouldn’t she speak with me?
    As I had before, I heard her inhale, then exhale. Like one of those relaxation techniques, maybe to control her nervousness. Then she finally looked into my eyes, without saying a word.
    And I drowned in an emerald sea.
    She needed no words to communicate; she spoke with her eyes. She was tired. Not tired in the sense of wanting to sleep. It was something different. Exhaustion. Sluggishness. Something she was missing.
    She held my gaze, blinking only occasionally, still doing those rhythmic breaths. Eventually, I noted her muscles relax. Her fists loosened, and she wiped the blood on her palms off on her dark gray jean shorts. She didn’t seem to care if they got stained. Or maybe she didn’t notice. She continued staring and waited through a few more breaths before finally speaking.
    “So, you like to sneak through other people’s